My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting
by gecko-chan
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Three years later, while on shift, John finds Sherlock injured in a hospital bed, admitted under a false name. Together, they have to sift through the pain of years' passing while rebuilding Sherlock's life. As Sherlock tries to protect John from a new enemy, John struggles to drive away his friend's demons. Rated M for graphic images. Bonus Johnlock chapter up!
1. Chapter 1

**A/n: Hello, I'm gecko! It's been quite a long time since I've been taken hostage by this thing called fanfiction. No matter how I try and I try to tear myself away, it just keeps coming back in amplifying fits and bouts. Anyhwhoodle, I hope you enjoy this (****more than the awful summary). Rated M for swearing and later graphic images.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination.**

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**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 1**

Lighting up on his nightstand, John's phone rang, filling the once-quiet room with an irritating, repetitive tone. Still unable to shake his old army habits, John bolted upright and snatched the offending object. "Hello," he answered grumpily, half-annoyed that he had only been able to catch three hours of sleep before being roused once more by his superior none-the-less.

"John!" Doctor Owens shouted amongst the busy, flurried sound behind him. "I'm sorry…But we'll need you to come in tonight, too. The amount of people here, I swear, full moon makes 'em crazy…"

Sighing, John agreed and promptly hung up. It's not like his sleep was being particularly disturbed, another hour or so and he would surely wake up to another nightmare, feeling worse-off than just lamely accepting the punishment of unrelenting fatigue.

John arose and shifted into his trousers, using his bed as a balance for his uncertain legs. Grabbing his slightly-wrinkled button-up shirt, he shoved his arms in the sleeves and began buttoning as he forced his feet into his work shoes. The doctor grabbed his jumper for good measure and walked down the stairs to the common room in the dark. He knew his way around; in fact, he almost preferred it this way. As much as he wanted to forget Sherlock and move on with his life, he couldn't bear the thought of leaving 221B, much less removing Sherlock's possessions from the very place he had left them (with exception of any and all experiments, thus sanitizing his kitchen once and for all). Sherlock's strange eccentricities still marred the room: his violin still lay in its case, untouched for nearly three years now; the skull, John mused, was now his equivalent to Sherlock, the brilliant, dazzling young man, who has probably long been reduced a mere skeleton; even the man's notes remained untouched, and John wondered if the day he moved them, Sherlock would come bounding through the door with a histrionic flare, throwing his arms up while demanding to know just what he was doing. Chuckling at his own naivete, he still felt a desire to move them ever-so-slightly to crush what little hope he had remaining. Sherlock Holmes wasn't the type to up and die, and to this day, John still had problems believing it despite monthly trips to the cemetery.

At last, the doctor reached the door and pushed it open, locking it carefully behind him. He stepped down the stairs with familiarity, hardly noticing them on his way down anymore. Both shoulder and leg felt fine, and if they didn't, Watson wasn't one to notice; he wasn't one to particularly care. There was no reason to. He was just some doctor, working his arse off to pay both portions of the rent (paying for both himself and the dead man he spent sleepless nights over), with no wife, no girlfriend, no children, not even a cat. He was left in the dust, caught (but neither willing nor ready to leave from) the shadow of his enigmatic friend. Even Mrs. Hudson had moved on to a new beau, with whom she spent most of her time. Lestrade hardly called, Mycroft's interference was minimal if existing, and that was all there was to it.

The air was brisk, and John could see his breath as he exhaled. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he walked to the ICU and greeted the receptionist before making his way to one of the staff rooms. Watson grabbed his set of scrubs and quickly changed into them before stepping back out to look for Doctor Owens to receive his list of patients to check upon.

Within no time at all, the two met and Dr. Watson received a list of some of the newly-admitted patients along with their medical records. Stifling a yawn, he set out to work. The ICU always seemed flustered to him: families asking questions, some crying; the many sounds and alarms of patients' machines; and the never-ending stream of patients, who didn't want to be there, who couldn't sleep, who wanted more drugs, complaining. It was work none-the-less, John shrugged. In a way, this hospital reminded him of his time in Afghanistan, but with far less severe injuries and previous patient familiarity.

Before entering his fifth room, Watson checked the patient file. "Ashdown, Jacob" the doctor muttered, examining the extensive medical record. Malnutrition, a deep abdominal stab wound (which was patched up with surgery), bruising, smaller lacerations, as well as several cracked ribs, a broken left forearm, and a hefty concussion upon admittance four days ago.

_Pain in the ass,_ John read from a yellow sticky note in Owens' handwriting on the back page. Chuckling, the doctor entered the room, prepared for anything. If he could live with and handle Sherlock, he thought, he could manage absolutely anything else that could possibly be thrown at him.

Putting on a fresh set of gloves, John took a cursory glance at the bleeping machines and turned to the patient. The man's face was haggard, worn and thin, with healing small cuts and harsh purple bruises, but vaguely familiar. Upon closer examination, John froze, dropping the clipboard on the floor. "Sh-Sherlock?" he stammered, forgetting about the clipboard's existence.

The man's eyes fluttered open to the wood's clacking and to the call of a name that was supposedly not his own, revealing their intense, striking gray. Focusing in on John, the man shot into sheer surprise, and the two stared at each other with eyes wide as saucers. "John," the low baritone replied curtly, confirming the other's assertion.

Hand shaking, John couldn't believe his eyes. Sherlock was here, alive, and sitting in a hospital bed in his hospital. Completely floored, John was unsure of what to do next. Did he want to laugh? Cry? Hug him? Beat the living shit out of him for keeping him and everyone else in the dark? Well, yes, but looking at the younger man's state purged the desire.

Before he found the solution, John heard Sherlock shift into a sitting position and felt a hand grasp onto his arm, each bony joint digging in as if clinging on for dear life. "John," Sherlock's voice moaned, "I'm sorry."

Looking into the younger man's eyes, John saw that they were pleading, desperate for forgiveness. "For what?" John snapped, "For jumping off a building and _dying_ in front of my eyes? For allowing me to think that you've been _dead_ for how many years now? For giving me nightmares? For leaving me _alone_ in flat that I couldn't possibly leave despite the constant reminder of all of your crap laying around? For making me _wish_ it was somehow all different? For making me believe in you while everyone else tore you down? For showing up here out of no where, looking like you were_ beat to hell_? _Without me?_ You went and did whatever the fuck you did _without_ me? For all the _shit_ you've put me through? Tell me if I guess it!" Tears welling up, John growled, "Damn it, Sherlock!"

Staring blankly at John's face and trembling body, Sherlock's own expression soured. Awkwardly pressing through the pain in his midsection and arm, Sherlock wrapped his good right arm around John's girth and squeezed, burying the side of his face into the doctor's chest and inhaling deeply, secretly trying to hold back tears himself. He couldn't tell John why he was gone in the first place; he knew it would hurt him. Hell, it would hurt himself. This would be his only affection toward the stouter man, all he would allow himself. _It will be better off if John hates me...but for now, I-I need this_, Sherlock reiterated to himself.

John encircled the younger man in his own arms and rested his head on top of Sherlock's greasy, matted locks. Snorting back the wave of mucus that came with his few tears, John croaked, "Why, Sherlock?"

His lungs shuttering, Sherlock took a sharp breath and remained silent. He couldn't bring himself to lie, to hurt John once more though it was for the better. Not now, not yet. Even if it meant he had to be forever alone, occasionally bruised and battered by the enemy, John would be able to move on, unlike himself. John was resilient, John was likable, John had more to live for. John had hope.

Pain finally overstepping Sherlock's tolerance, the man whimpered slightly, and John immediately recoiled. The detective could almost see the pained expression in his only friend's face, hurt from his appearance, ashamed that he allowed his emotions get the better of him and hurt a patient. Sighing, John carefully pushed the younger back down to a reclining position and asked, "So, Mr. _Ashdown_, what on Earth happened?"

Sherlock stared. This was more information he chose not to disclose.

"Sherlock," John started, his tone far calmer than before. "When they discharge you, and that should be soon...Today even...Where are you going?"

For a mere moment, Sherlock's neutral expression waved into a frown, desperately wanting to cry out "HOME!", but he knew that would be further complicate the situation. John found Sherlock by some strange twist of fate, and now that he knew he was alive, John wasn't going to merely let him go on his merry way, back to whatever the hell had injured him. No, if John hadn't changed in the last three years, he would drag him back to the flat kicking and screaming.

"Fine, if you're not going to talk, you clearly have no objections to coming back to the flat, where we can figure this out..." John continued, carefully watching Sherlock's face for a reaction, but saw nothing more than a slight nod. "Here is not the place...and I'm your doctor...Uh, do you hurt anywhere?" he resorted to quite possibly the most-annoying (not to mention inane), frequently asked question for doctors.

Sherlock shot his only friend a look of can-you-be-any-dumber? and retorted, "What do you think? You read the file."

Huffing, John retaliated, "Just let me look at your stomach. From what I've read, it's looking good...Well, for what it is." Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted himself up again. Taking the hint, John lifted the simple gown up to where he saw a white gauze bandage with three sides taped. To reduce any pain or further annoyance, John ripped it off quickly and examined the stitched puncture wound. No strange swelling, infections, healing had started. "Well, reports are still good in your favor." Returning to the back counter, John extracted a new package of square gauze and medical tape and returned back to Sherlock's side.

As John ripped the packaging, he examined Sherlock's chest as a whole. Though still toned, the man was covered in a series of scars (ranging from white to reddish hues, some reflecting cigarette burns) between his ribs and hips alone. Setting the wrappings aside, he pressed the gauze to Sherlock's stitches and covered the edges in tape. "So," John began, sliding the gown back down, feeling some of the scars against the thin material. "What did you do to yourself?"

Silence.

John's brow furrowed. "For God's sake, Sherlock! I'm mad at you, yes! I want to know what the fuck you thought you were pulling! You left. You _died._ You _killed yourself._ And I'm angry. I'd hit you if you showed up any other way. You seriously are an idiot, a brilliant idiot who sometimes just doesn't get it! But does that mean that I'm going to send you back off on your way when I find out, after _three whole years,_ that you're actually somehow alive? You're going sit here and I'm going to have the nurse start discharging you, and you're coming home with me!"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, afraid he would spontaneously do something irrational like display his emphatic happiness or relief. Before leaving, John grabbed the forgotten clipboard and shot the man a tight, teary smile. After the doctor left the room, Sherlock could still hear the clicking of John's shoes and the muffled conversation between John and the irksome, bubbly nurse.

Grinning to himself, Sherlock took a deep breath, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Three years of fighting, spying, evidence-collecting, and death only to be washed away by two corners of a single mouth turning upward. He wasn't forgiven, nor should he be, but he was received. An angry John is better than no John. And to think, less than two hours ago, he was bored. He marveled, _How easy a solution..._

**A/n: I hope you enjoyed this first installment, and if you did please review, subscribe, 'n stuff. I have school and a pile of work to do this last stretch before Halloween, but I do tend to write in my free time or when I can't sleep. 'Till next time!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: Hello again! Let's see if I can eek out one last chapter before the weekend ends...**

**Disclaimer: Not mine by any stretch of the imagination.**

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**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 2**

After Sherlock checked out of the hospital, John hailed a taxi (despite it lasting all of three minutes in traffic) and took the detective home to the flat. To John's relief, Mrs. Hudson was out, probably having lunch with her new boyfriend. John quickly shuffled Sherlock inside, hoping to hide him as soon as humanly possible. Until he figured out what was going on here, he needn't a bruised and battered Sherlock romping around town, revealing that, yes, he was alive.

Upon entering the flat, Sherlock surveyed the area. The living room was covered in about two months worth of dust, but the objects that Sherlock had carelessly left laying around before his death remained roughly in the same place he recalled leaving them. Familiarity washing over him, the detective felt a little weak in the knees. He was home. As John strode off into the kitchen (most likely to make tea), Sherlock plopped on the couch, sitting on it properly, legs quivering. His right-hand fingers tapped on his knees impatiently. This was the place he dreamed of returning to, but now that he was actually here, it was all too overwhelming. Uncomfortable even. Though is possessions were strewn around the room, the space was no longer his; it was John's. There was no shred of him living in the room, his belongings as dead as he was.

Clutching the square Union Jack pillow against his chest, he hunkered down onto it nervously. Everything was far too quiet, there was no pressing danger, no need to constantly be on the move. Though he could hear John in the kitchen, the general, ringing silence was slowly driving him mad. Taking the remote into his hand, he flipped on the telly and turned it to the most banal of programming to end the silence. Sherlock had never been so grateful to a makeover show in his life.

John entered the room, handed Sherlock a cup of tea in his usual mug, and asked, "Why are you watching that drivel? I thought you hated crappy telly."

"Too quiet," Sherlock grumbled, taking the cup into his hand. The mug itself felt so natural, John's gesture affable, and the flat so docile. Too perfect.

"Fine, fine, background noise," John agreed, sipping at his tea. His eyes fell to Sherlock, who was obviously slightly distressed. Back arched, his sling and right elbow hung to the pillow still, and his right hand cradled the mug on his knee. _This is awkward..._ Finally finding a topic, John continued, "You might want to take a shower after you finish your tea...Just make sure to dry your stitches and cover the cast...There's a wad of plastic bags in the kitchen."

Without another word, Sherlock abruptly stood up, letting the pillow fall to the floor. After setting the mug down, the man headed straight for the kitchen. Returning with a bag, Sherlock practically bolted for his room.

Flipping the light switch, he took a mental inventory of the room, dusty and forgotten. Pulling his closet door open, Sherlock grabbed one of his button-up shirts, a pair of trousers, and some undergarments from some of his drawers. He slung them over his shoulder, and pressed forward to the bathroom.

John merely sat and watched the flurry of motion before him. Once Sherlock slammed the bathroom door closed and the water started running, John slumped and sighed. Staring at Sherlock's tea cup, he still felt as if he had once again made two cups by accident and just left it on the coffee table. After all his praying for a miracle, John finally received his: Sherlock was alive and he was here with him. But was this quiet, uncertain shell his actually Sherlock? What on Earth could have happened to make him this way? Did Mycroft know? Did anyone know? With his features, how did he manage to live here in London without being recognized? Was he even in London at all? Finishing his tea, he took his out cup and rinsed it in the sink.

The shower was quick, and Sherlock walked back into the living room in socked feet. Having not bothered to dry them, his curls were plastered against his forehead and neck, contrasting with his pink, after-shower tone. His clothes clung to his still-damp frame, making John grumble, "Sherlock it's freezing. You're going to get sick...You clearly didn't dry your stitches well either..." The detective shrugged and slid onto the couch, pulling his long legs underneath him. Throwing a knitted blanket at his friend, John persisted, "Are you going to continue this no talking thing?"

"I suppose not, if you find something to talk about," Sherlock replied after extracting the blanket from his face and adjusting it over his lap to appease the doctor.

John rolled his eyes. There was plenty to talk about. "Fine, does anyone know? Mycroft? Lestrade? Molly?"

"Not a soul save you," Sherlock replied promptly, figuring this information was imperative to John's understanding.

Slightly glad that he was the first to know, John soon realized that their meeting was just a mere fluke. If he hadn't been called in by Owens, he might have never seen Sherlock in the first place. "So, this was just a mere coincidence? You never intended to come back?"

Sherlock nodded and said, "Just a coincidence. I never intended to return here." _I wanted to come back, but I never intended to._

Studying his friend's face, he felt that he saw traces of loneliness, but they soon disappeared. "Did you want to come back?" John continued, catching on his use of wording. This was a game. He wouldn't answer any more than what he asked.

"No," Sherlock lied through his teeth, the word seething out of his mouth. _Well, I wanted to come back, but hurting John wasn't an option._

_He's lying,_ John noted, wondering just how much more he'd be lied to in this strange process. "So, if I were to tell you to be on your merry way right now. Would you leave?" the doctor asked, hoping that the question would be enough to unravel his lies before they further persisted.

Sherlock gulped and his eyes widened. He hadn't expected John to be this forward in his questioning. Knowing he had to prove something, Sherlock rose and slipped on his shoes, preparing for the door. However, John grabbed the lanky detective and pushed him back onto the couch. "I thought you just told me to piss off," Sherlock protested, kicking his shoes off once more, while John sunk back into his own chair.

"Idiot," John sighed, annoyed at his friend's attempt to prove a point. When Sherlock grimaced, he knew that it was time to continue, "I'll happily let you go do whatever you please when you've explained yourself. You at least owe me that."

Once Sherlock digested just what John had said, he snapped, "So what? You're going to keep me here? Against my will? What will you do? Tie me to the bed? Oh, I can see the headlines now! 'Sherlock Holmes Found Alive, Tied to Doctor John Watson's Bed'! Faked death for shameless sexual escapades? Oh, how the people will talk!" Adding a flare of melodrama, the detective stewed silently over Watson's second comment. _I owe him my explanation? I died, I disappeared, and fought for him...And yet I owe him more?_

"If I have to, I will. And besides, people do little else," John commented calmly, using the detective's own words against him.

Sherlock looked at the stone-faced stout man and tried resisted all impulses to have a hearty laugh. Finally a small chuckle emerged from his throat and he continued laughing until John, too, joined him. _Three years, and it's like no time has passed at all,_ Sherlock thought as pain shot through his sore stab wound. "John!" he cried, laughing during the whole phrase, "Don't make me do something that hurts!" Letting out another choked giggle, the detective took a few breaths to calm himself while John stopped entirely, his eyes full of concern for the younger. "It's fine," Sherlock said, gleaming, the muscles in his face starting to go sore from use.

John returned the smile, amused by the man's locks, curling upon drying. How could three years hardly make anything different? How could they both just continue on laughing like nothing of grave importance actually happened? Still curious about his friend's absence, John cut back to business and continued, "So, if no one knows, just how did you manage to survive?"

The detective grinned; he had actually prepared for this one. "You buried me with my wallet," he stated simply as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. All it took now was for John to take the bait.

"And why does that matter in the slightest?" John asked, blinking hard in confusion.

"Because the morons who determined me dead were incompetent," Sherlock began explaining, oh how he loved drama. "I was buried anyway, and when I woke up, I was stuck. Instead of accepting my fate or scratching my nails out, I pulled out my license and used it to pick the pins on the side of the coffin. Opening it a bit, a pulled some of the dirt inside, and eventually made my way to the top." _If he asks about the dirt, I'll just say I took some from a grave that had just been dug..._Sherlock thought, focusing on the small details.

Brows furrowing, John pressed, "And you didn't come back to the flat, flailing and screaming at the top of your lungs, threatening to sue for malpractice _why_?" He couldn't think of anything the detective could say that wouldn't augment his own irritation, especially if it was some hackneyed, unbelievable return that Sherlock had somehow acquired amnesia.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had set this up for this blow, now wasn't the time to back down. "I felt it was a good place to end part of my life. A fresh start. With all the space I could ever hope for." He fought a frown, his body desperately wanting to betray him. _I'm lying, I'm lying...Oh God, John, I don't want you to hate me. But...you need to, please just do. Kick me out, send me flying. It's for your own good._

"So you mean to tell me that you just up and let us think you were dead for three years? That you _selfishly _went on with the rest of your life while the rest of us _mourned _over you? You know, Sherlock, I thought I'd give you the benefit of the doubt. Just go, get the fuck out. Don't come back. Have all the space you fucking need!_"_ John's face grew angrier with each and every word. "I knew you were selfish from the day I met you, but this...this is just unbelievable. You really died, Sherlock. Go. Just go." Elbows on his knees, John plopped his face into his hands, back slumping. He wanted Sherlock back, but how could he allow himself to be stepped over once again by this selfish ingrate?

Sherlock rose, not looking at his the only man he ever considered his friend, and shuffled back into his shoes. Taking up his coat, he grabbed his violin and slung it over his shoulder. It would have to be his only friend now. Sherlock didn't have friends; he only had one, and now that slot was filled. He had lost his one and only human friend.

Dejected, he shifted to the door, having one last look at John's sinking form and the flat before exiting. Closing the door behind him, Sherlock felt as tears fell down his face, salt stinging at his open cuts. _This really is for the better..._

Slowly, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, anxiety building with every step. This was the final time he'd ever step foot in Baker Street, in the place that he loved, much less see the person that forced him to ingrain the sentimental value into it. No more Baker Street. No more John.

Once he made it onto the street, Sherlock blinked, taking the view of London in around him. Wiping his eyes to protect them from the bitter cold, he turned to make his way down the street. After taking a step forward, he saw Mrs. Hudson, dressed in a nice plum purple sweater (a date, clearly) and hardly looked a day older.

It took a moment for the woman to register his face, but her eyes widened at the sight before her. Weakly smiling, Sherlock glanced at his beloved landlady and commented with a cracking voice, "Looks like you found a good one..." before taking long strides down the street, cold air biting at his wet eyes.

**A/n: Hope you enjoyed! Please review! A story without reviews makes me sad ; _ ; so please make me happy. I have a lot more planned, so please let me know what you think. Reviews just might make me write faster (or well, post faster). 'Till next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/n: Hello, we meet again! I would like to thank my first reviewers, Rachel, Teen Sherlockian, and gemstone! :) You guys really made my day today, and made me write yet another chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

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**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 3**

When Sherlock slammed the door behind him, John sat perfectly still, unable to believe what the last twelve hours yielded. Not only does he find (by sheer coincidence) his best friend alive, but learns that the man's level of affection didn't match his own. Did he not deserve an explanation? Did Sherlock just not care? Did he ever care? _No, that can't be true, _John chided himself. _I mean, sure, he's drugged me for the sake of an experiment, dragged me around town, put me in a deep shitton of trouble (which was really fun...), but there was the time at the pool. He was scared. For me. But he also died, and left without a word...Willingly._

Hearing a knock at the door, John jumped. Sherlock couldn't have possibly returned. Forgotten something maybe. Didn't he know that coming back like this just wasn't the proper thing to do? Wiping his damp eyes with his wool sweater, the doctor bolted upright and fled to the door, opening it with a wide swing. Mrs. Hudson stood outside the threshold, looking as if she had just seen a ghost. "W-was that...?"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, relieved to have another person in the crazy boat.

"And he's...?"

"Not dead," the man confirmed.

Mrs. Hudson paled. "Did you...Did you send him off?" she asked, recalling his battered, crying face. For as long as she had known that man, this was the first time she had seen him cry. John nodded, and the landlady scowled, "Do you even know where he was off to?"

"No," John answered, realizing that the man might have had no where else to go. Where had he acquired his injuries? How? Was he in London the whole time? No, he surely would have been recognized.

The elderly landlady sighed, remarking, "Never saw the boy cry before, either..."

John's own puffy eyes widened at the thought. "He was crying?" the doctor stammered. Turning to the coat rack, John grabbed one of his warmer coats and swore, "Shit, Mrs. Hudson, which way did he go?" She quickly explained that he was heading towards the direction of the park, and wished him luck, muttering something about their little domestic resolving.

Thanking his landlady, John sped down the stairs and pushed out the door to head to Regent's Park. _Why would Sherlock cry? Was he upset that I got mad at him for his selfishness? Wait. He was lying earlier. And I just got caught up in it...What else was he lying about? What benefit could he have possibly received from saying something so selfish? Though Sherlock had low standards...I've grabbed the man's phone out of his pocket for God's sake!...but he's not that heartless. And he left without getting the last word in. He didn't even try to defend himself...It's like he wanted me to say that, and I walked right into it. But why? Gah, Sherlock would have a million responses as to why in a mere second. Why can't I come up with anything? God, I'm an idiot. I need to find him before he exposes himself, or hurts himself...Or, please, just let me find him...I really am a fool._ Slowing down to a walk, he reached the York Gate and entered. _That's assuming he even came here...__  
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Sherlock leaned against one of the trees near the Cumberland Green in Regent Park, his violin case propped up against him, reminding him of his present inability to play. Though "Jacob Ashdown" had some money left to his name, Sherlock knew he had spent a hefty portion upon his hospital treatments abroad, paying most up front, and his travel back here. He didn't have anywhere to go, and having completely uncovered, jailed, or in one way or another led to the death of the rest of Moriarty's documented allies, nothing to do. No purpose. He couldn't go back to Lestrade, or the flat.

A shiver coursed through his body, reminding him that it was nearing winter. Any colder, it may start snowing, he mused. What would he do then? Find a river to jump in somewhere? Call Mycroft? Or Mummy? Now that was a thought. Pulling out his standard, pre-paid phone, Sherlock dialed his brother's number, adding the extension that he knew his brother would directly answer, the lines that he kept open for only him (or used to) and Mummy. If he was going to keep up this living again in London shtick, his brother would need to know. However, after typing it, the numbers stared back at him, and the man couldn't bring himself to press the green TALK button. He didn't need any help in the last three years. Why did he need it now? Closing the phone, Sherlock stared towards the people, deducing their whole life story with ease. A banker who was having an affair on his wife with a man, a schoolteacher and mother who absolutely abhorred children, and a disgusting little man with an extreme penchant for dumpster diving and cats person skimmed past his eyes along the path before him. No one looked at him, as he preferred it. He was just merely an observer.

Looking around, Sherlock relished in the familiarity of London. On his many travels, the young man traveled throughout Europe and Asia, disabling the last of the threats. He was fairly certain he had finished up the last ones, concluding the fight here. Sherlock never intended surviving the battle, but his life was spared by the actions of a good samaritan after he collapsed a distance away from the scene. For once, the police ineptitude played to his advantage. No investigation was pursued against him. To them, the copious amounts of blood reflected that he was a victim and afterwards, the two known gang members got into some sort of argument, resulting in several deaths. End of story. Open and close.

Sliding to the ground, Sherlock unfastened and unzipped his violin case, carefully pulling the instrument out with his only good arm. Smiling, he was thrilled to see the instrument still in good condition, pleased that he had bothered to put the instrument back in its case as opposed to leaving it out in the humidity. The last thing he'd want to do to the poor forlorn instrument was leave it out in his absence and have the bridge warp underneath the very strings it valiantly upheld. That or the wood itself would expand, crack, or otherwise deform, ruining his instrument. London weather wasn't particularly kind to wooden instruments.

Splaying its form across his outstretched legs, he plucked at his G string first and frowned as it sounded closer to a viola's C. After tuning the string, he moved on to the next, grimacing at how far along their tune had slipped. Once all four were to his satisfaction, he strummed across the four, grinning at the basic sound. Sherlock hadn't the chance to play in months, his own fiddle in years.

Gently placing it back in its blue velvet case, he secured it inside and closed the case back up, goading his arm to hurry and heal. Not being able to play while bored was sheer torture. His violin was the only thing that kept his usually abuzz mind calm, emptied it for a few moments even. He always claimed his violin helped him think, but Sherlock knew it silenced his mind for a few brief minutes, which allowed for the clear thoughts to reach him among the noise that oftentimes cluttered his head. It was the only one that truly understood him, other than John.

"John," Sherlock moaned, smacking his head into his knees. Everything that presented John any danger was gone, including himself. He jumped, not knowing he would live, to satiate the snipers, to protect John. But once he returned to the real word, clinging onto life in a dank cell, he learned that his sacrifice just wasn't enough. He couldn't give his lifetime over to death to protect his flatmate; no, he had to give his lifetime's worth of living. If Moriarty had simply let Sherlock plunge to his death, he wouldn't have successfully burnt his heart out as he had promised. The charade was far too simple, far too easy; Moriarty wouldn't have _loopholes._ He planned to grapple hold of Sherlock's heart and destroy it, and the best way to do that would be by keeping him away from all that he was accustomed, keeping them behind an unbreakable, transparent wall. Within the last three years, if he had even tried to contact, to meet with so much as any of his old acquaintances, they would have been promptly killed, which was an inexcusable result to satisfy himself for a moment that would also condemn himself for life. Once Sherlock pressed through the muck that surrounded him, he couldn't return paranoid, unable to forgive himself if those he cared for were harmed in any way for his sake or from his actions. Even in death, Moriarty had won. Sherlock's heart was burned, and this was the final straw. John hated him.

No matter how easy Sherlock thought suicide was in these last few years, he could never bring himself to attempt it once more, knowing the effect that this particular death of a dead man may have on the living. Sighing, the detective looked back on his life and as of now, he really had nothing. Sherlock Holmes, though originally believed a fake after the fall, earned his reputation back through his own secret efforts, proving Moriarty the demented blighter he was. However, Sherlock Holmes was now reduced to Jacob Ashdown, disallowing the man credence to his own name. He was stuck living the life of this boring man that was designed to live under society's eyes. He had no friends, no family, no place to live, let alone a home._  
_

A warm hand plopped on Sherlock's head, scuffling his hair. Looking up, Sherlock saw John standing above him, both hands now at his side. Pleased with his findings, John smiled at the broken man and offered his hand. Reaching for it, Sherlock could feel what was left of his maimed heart shatter.

**A/n: S'a little short, but now that you've read, please review! ****Please guys? Don't make me feel like I'm talking to a wall. Writing is really putting a part of you on a platter and waiting for people to pick at it. Problem is, I can't see your reactions and yet I'm teased by knowing just how many of you there are. I don't know what you like, what you dislike. I love seeing reviews in my inbox, they make me extraordinarily happy. I'm sure when you're writing, you love to see reviews, too. Please grant me the same favor. It takes less than a minute of your time (and I'm sure if you've read all of my chapters to this point, you've already spent more than that already), shows some appreciation, and makes an author happy.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/n: I can't believe it's already chapter 4! I would like to thank my lovely reviewers. I love you guys ^_^ . I'd respond to your reviews via message like I used to once upon a few years ago, but I don't know just how weird that is... O.o Now, without (much) further delay~**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. Changing into other people isn't an attribute I have, and I certainly haven't developed it in the last week.**

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**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 4**

The two spent a moment exchanging glances until John broke the silence, "Why, Sherlock?" Brow furrowing, he stared at his younger friend, waiting for an answer.

_Play_ _dumb._ "Why what?" Sherlock replied with a confused look on his face. _The better question is what he is even doing here...Breathing slightly exasperated (though his level of fitness has decreased), warm coat off (clutched), partially running on his way. No phone, no keys, no wallet. Left in a hurry. Shoes, the mud, he traipsed around the whole park. Mrs. Hudson talked to him no doubt...John came looking for me. Why?_

"That is probably the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say," John rallied, annoyed at how daft and unobservant his friend thought he was. "You lied, and I want to know why. I don't know what part of it, but I know you played me like your damn violin."

Sherlock stood in a numb silence, his right hand clutching the strap of his violin case. Did he really think he could pull something like this over John? The person who knew him better than he knew himself. What aspects about his own personal attitude had he forsaken for this ploy? How _did _he act around John? _It's just so natural..._

John sighed, slipping into his coat after the heat from his jaunt wore away. "You're Sherlock Holmes, not some bloody doormat," he grumbled in a low tone to avoid letting the passers-by in on the conversation, "You just don't lay down and take anything. I knew you were lying...You wanted to come back. But what was that little _show_ you put on towards the end there? I didn't recognize it at first, but the Sherlock Holmes I know would have defended himself somehow. Try to clumsily talk his way out of everything to make it all okay. But that, that was _planned."_

As much as he didn't want to confirm John's assertions, Sherlock wanted to applaud him for being so observant of his proclivities that he could apply them in practice (though with a delayed reaction). He knew he wasn't good with social situations, and the best advice he'd gotten on damaging relationships in the last few years was from crappy, over-dramatized telly (which was more often than not in language that he didn't fully comprehend at the time). Sherlock knew how to get what he wanted from people he didn't know, but John seldom gave him exactly what he wanted without a grain of salt. Why on Earth did he think he could simply just pull the wool over his only friend's eyes? John wasn't most people.

"Dammit, Sherlock! Speak!" John snapped in a hushed voice. After another moment of silence, he took Sherlock by the arm and led him out of the park. "We're going to the flat, and we're going to figure this out," he decided.

"What if I had somewhere else to stay?" Sherlock asked, allowing himself to be pulled. In his state, there was no use in fighting him.

Rolling his eyes, John tugged the injured man a little harder and recoiled, "Your first instinct was to stay in the bloody park. Unless you have an informant for whatever reason, which you don't...You wouldn't let me drag you along if you did. You've no where to stay and it's getting cold. Now come on. I know it's getting dark, but I'm not yanking you along the whole way." John released the younger man's hand and watched as he fell in step with his own.

Sherlock didn't know whether to be pleasantly surprised with John or if he should be irritated at his plan's failure. It's like he is some temperamental wife who just ran home to Mummy and Daddy, waiting for her husband to come get her for some sense of how much she is loved. But not, Sherlock didn't _want _to be retrieved yet here he was, walking back with John. _How contradictory, _he noted. _Fussy things...emotions._

Aside London's bustling, their walk continued in silence, and before they knew it, they were climbing the seventeen steps to 221B. Turning the doorknob, John pressed in against the unlocked door and opened it for the younger man. Sherlock took a step inside and took a deep breath. Mere hours ago he had said he would never see this place, let alone John, ever again. And here he was, breaking the declarations of his past self. What was he? Some sort of overweight, down-on-his-luck, middle-aged man at New Years, promising that he would exercise more, work harder, and do better with the ladies? _Might as well be..._

Stomach growling, John opened the fridge only to find a box of baking soda abandoned in the back. Closing the door, he searched the cupboards and was rewarded with an opened package of stale crackers. As he turned to yell towards the common room, he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. Jumping slightly, John polled, "Chinese sound good?"

Though he had lived on properly-made Chinese food for a few months, Sherlock nodded. He hardly ever tasted it anyway, and meals were few and far between. As John set to the phone, Sherlock set the electric kettle to boil and pulled the box of tea bags from their usual place. If there was one thing stocked in the flat, it would be tea. Sifting through the varieties, Sherlock was comforted by the brands he couldn't find elsewhere. He plucked two bags of his selection, set them on the counter, and gingerly took two mugs from the cupboards, placing them before him. Ripping both baggies open, he dropped a teabag in each cup for good measure.

After ordering the food, John turned to face his younger companion. "Let's just eat and sleep tonight, yes?" he suggested, offering the best compromise he could manage. Sherlock agreed and continued glaring at the clear kettle as if his gaze could somehow increase the temperature of the heating element. Chuckling, John watched as Sherlock grimaced at the kettle, his lengthy, stray curls winding around his face. _I wonder if he's cursing it for its impudence...He really looks like a kid. _"When was the last time you cut your hair?"

Without looking up, Sherlock answered, "A few months, probably."

"Probably?"

"I didn't particularly pay attention to time. There was no need." Pulling at one of his own curls, he commented, "I suppose they are getting long." Tugging at another, he straightened and released it, watching as it sprung back into its original state.

The conversation growing awkward, John had no clue what to say in response. Small talk with Sherlock Holmes was, well, previously unheard of; he always had something to prattle about whether it be to himself, the nearest inanimate object, or John. Irritated by the silence, Sherlock interjected, "I was thinking about calling Mycroft."

"You told me he doesn't know, right?" John recalled, thankful for Sherlock divulging both a legitimate topic and talking a bit about himself.

Sherlock nodded and continued, "He may, but I sincerely doubt it..." The kettle beeped, confirming it had reached the desired temperature.

As Sherlock grabbed the handle and poured the water into both cups, John questioned, "But wasn't he your archenemy?"

"Recent affiliations have forced me to reconsider that moniker..." Sherlock trailed off as he focused on bobbing his tea bag in the hot water. No, Mycroft wasn't his archenemy. Mycroft was pleasant by comparison to the cretin he dealt with in the last few years. Peachy even.

John took his own cup. "'Recent affiliations'?" he probed, wondering just how much of the puzzle he would get tonight.

"Correct," the detective stated without further elaboration. "He is my brother, after all..."

Completely floored by the sudden sincerity, John pressed, "So you miss him?"' _What happened to him? I swear he'd never get rid of his distaste for his big brother..._

"I suppose that would be the word for it." Opening the cupboard once more, Sherlock pulled down the light sugar jar. Lifting the lid, he scowled at the empty container and promptly shoved it back on the shelf. "We need sugar," he declared, taking a sip of his overly-bitter tea with a grimace.

"We need a lot of things," John commented, remembering how bare the fridge was. "There's nothing but baking soda in the fridge...And the best we have for food around here is a couple of stale crackers..."

_What has John been eating? He never skips meals...He's not as healthy as he was the last time I saw him..._

The doctor watched his friend's eyes scan over him. Chuckling, John explained, "I buy food at the hospital usually. I've been eating too many muffins lately, getting a bit chubby, I know."

"Ah," Sherlock breathed in relief.

_Back to the awkward silence...Mycroft. Right. _"So do you think you're going to call Mycroft?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation alive until at least the Chinese arrives. _Eating excuses the need for conversation, right?_

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, shocked by his own words. _But I don't. What on Earth do I say? 'Hello, brother, guess what? I'm not dead.' And then Mummy, she'll cry. I don't want to deal with that._

"Well, if you plan on living your life as Sherlock Holmes again, you're going to have to deal with the consequences of the people you've left behind..." John lectured, counting himself in that category. For the meantime, he just had to keep Sherlock at bay and figure out what he was doing before he fell right back onto his doorstep. As much as John wanted to completely flip, he knew Sherlock needed the help more right now.

Sighing, Sherlock mumbled, "I didn't _plan _on coming back." _  
_

"What were you going to do then?" John asked, draining his cup. _He didn't plan on coming back. Did he really just do it to leave because he wanted to? But wait, Sherlock was a disgrace after his death, but his reputation partially returned once some of Moriarty's men spilled the beans to authorities. Did he have something to do with it? But that would mean that he wanted to come back...That or his ego was getting to him..._

Before Sherlock had the chance to answer to his uncertainty, the deliveryman knocked on the door, and John fled to pay for and retrieve the food. A moment later, John returned, bearing a bag full of take-out boxes.

Sitting down at the table, they sorted out the boxes, and began eating. John shoveled his chow mein into his mouth unceremoniously while Sherlock poked at his teriyaki beef. At this point, he was more tired than anything, the wear of today's events finally getting to him. After eating a couple pieces of meat, a few vegetables, and a couple of scoops of rice to satiate his stomach, Sherlock stood without a word and put his remaining share of food in the fridge. Flopping on the couch, Sherlock soon found much-needed sleep.

Following the gradual rise and decline of Sherlock's chest, John's eyes strayed back to his food. He wasn't particularly hungry anymore. Slipping out of his place, John, too, stuck his leftovers in the empty fridge. Dropping into the chair opposite the couch, the doctor propped his head on his hand to find a comfortable spot to watch the resting detective. Even in their prime together, witnessing Sherlock sleeping was a rare occurrence.

The day's tire grating on him, John refrained from sleep. For once, heading upstairs to his room was the last thing he wanted to do. From upstairs, he couldn't necessarily hear Sherlock leaving. He'll just wake up and think it was just a hauntingly horrible dream, reminding him of what he missed but couldn't have while the real, living Sherlock skulked off into the night. He got his miracle. Three years late, but late was always better than never, he figured. Without Mrs. Hudson's prodding, he still probably would have gone after the man. Losing Sherlock again for good just might be the end of him.

The other man's light breathing soothed John, and he gradually succumbed to sleep in turn.

**A/n: Hello, sorry, it's a filler chapter (after a week's wait *cringes*)...If I were actually into writing smut of this fandom, you'd have a bit of a more interesting read, I suppose. But ah well! Hopefully you enjoyed. Please review! I'll probably be up with the next chapter in a few days (my busy week is coming to a close!), so please make me happy in the meanwhile~ Bye!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/n: Hello again! Chapter five, woo! Hope you all are doing well. As of tomorrow, I've been on this story for all of two weeks. Wowzers. I feel like I've been delaying my action, so here we are? A warm-up? Long one at that.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

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**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 5**

_Sherlock groaned and tried to lift his head to survey his surroundings. Before he could register how heavy it felt, he fell hard into merciless, damp concrete, smacking his skull once more. Opening his eyes, he strained to see the meager amount of visible light in the distance. Thoughts scrambling, Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the throbbing pressure that his head was generously gifting. He was captured somewhere, but where? Who? Why? Where was he before this? Which case was he solving? Unable to answer any of his own questions, Sherlock tried to force his way back up but found he couldn't move any of his limbs. Settling back down, he fell into unconsciousness._

_o-o-o_

_"Wakey, wakey!" Sherlock heard as he felt a sharp slap to his face. Eyes snapping open, the detective looked into a dark void at a towering, shadowy figure before him. From where he was sitting, Sherlock could determine the man was nearly two meters tall but nothing else. His head throbbed and the irritating voice continued, "I'm glad, I see you're awake...Now we can continue this little game of ours."_

_As the lights switched on, Sherlock flinched, temporarily blinded. His head aching, he wriggled his hands only to find them bound behind him. Shivering, he realized that his feet were bare and bound and he was in thin clothing without any extra warmth from is curls; they had cut his hair. Cursing his hackneyed kidnapper, the detective fought to see that man. Eyes slowly adjusting, Sherlock could see the man's features as they came to him. Caucasian, chestnut brown hair, light stubble, dressed finely, fingernails clean. Manager. Criminal. He was talking to the head of a crime organization. Derek McCollum._

_"Ah, remember me, do we?" the man announced, his voice echoing around the stale room, which couldn't be more than someone's leaking basement._

_Sherlock eyed him and then the surrounding space. Jars of canned food filled several shelves along the far wall while a matching washer and dryer set sat against the next wall over, a stack of folded, floral shirts resting in a laundry basket. "Choice of location, as always. Won't she want her clothes?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the neat array._

_"She's no need for them," Derek assured his captive with a sinister smile. "You needn't be worrying over her..."_

She's dead_, the detective thought. _For a long time too, not murdered. Police would be sniffing around, the house would be sold already. No, this was a old woman, must have died upstairs._ "Can we hurry this process along?" Sherlock asked, boredom beginning to overcome him. Why couldn't his captors be in the least interesting? Before he knew it, John would surely arrive and end this all if he couldn't get out himself._

_McCollum said nothing and dug around in his coat pocket. Extracting several photos, he walked over and stooped next to Sherlock, offering the first for the detective to see. John stood among a flustered crowd, leaning against two of the nurses with his eyes dead set on a pool of blood._ My blood... _McCollum flipped to the next, showing a depressed John, eyes sunken and sullen, forehead creased, deeply frowning. He was sitting down, slouching on his interlocked hands as if in a silent prayer in what he knew to be St. Barts interior. The next, John was crying alone. Sherlock's heart sunk, remembering just what he had done before this, why his head hurt. Was he dead now? McCollum turned to the next picture, and Sherlock saw his family, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and John standing around a cemetery, standing before an unidentified grave. Knowing it was his own, the detective studied each of the face. John was blank, Molly in hysterics, and Mrs. Hudson's lip was quivering, silent tears sliding down her face. Mycroft wore a disappointed face and was standing beside their mother, holding her hand for support. Mrs. Holmes herself was upset, hardly able to fathom why her baby boy had declared himself a fraud and committed suicide. He couldn't help it; Sherlock would rather them sad on his behalf than dead. Mycroft was right, caring wasn't an advantage. If he didn't bring himself to care about these people, he never would have put them in danger; he never would have died for them._

_When the crime boss flipped the next picture over, the final nail was driven in Sherlock's coffin. Close up, the detective could see a shiny, black grave with his own name emblazoned on the front. "Touching isn't it?" McCollum asked. "Sherlock Holmes, befallen by emotions!"_

_Sherlock's eyes widened. Moriarty, McCollum. They were in cahoots. "Moriarty wanted to 'burn my heart out'...is this what he meant?" the detective questioned, not wanting to give the criminal further suggestion to his punishment._

_"Now you get it!" McCollum exclaimed, "I suppose you understand that you're not in London anymore. That we smuggled you out, half-alive. That your big brother doesn't know any different!" Sherlock had to hide his glare. The very notion of Mycroft not knowing exactly what he was up to seemed positively absurd, but proved to alienate him further. "Good, good, you understand. Let me explain the rules to our game," he continued, shooting the younger man a toothy, demented smile. "I wouldn't give you a game that's completely impossible...But it's rather challenging none-the-less. Every month, you must disable - kill, ruin, whatever - a few people of our choosing. If you die or don't complete the assignment by the deadline, we will kill your little friends and leave you begging for the same fate. Same goes for if you come into contact with any of your old acquaintances; they will be shot on the spot. In your spare time, feel free to come after us. Actions against us are only between involved parties. In fact, we welcome the challenge, you welcome your own consequence." The man's smirk increased, knowing Sherlock couldn't refuse._

I'm helping a criminal get more powerful...By taking Moriarty's place, _Sherlock noted. He couldn't half-complete the job now. He couldn't just jump off a building to save his friends only to have them killed by a dead man's folly._

_Walking behind the chair, McCollum lifted Sherlock's arms up from behind the chair and slung him forward to the ground. Bound and awkward, Sherlock clattered to the cement once more. The crime boss removed his belt and snapped it loudly behind the detective to intimidate him. Gearing it in place, McCollum yelled, "And this is for my brother!" In one swift motion, he whipped at Sherlock's thinly-clothed back until gashes and welts formed, profusely bleeding through the white layer._

_o-o-o_

Awaking to a harsh thud, John bolted upright from his chair, muscles crying their objection. His eyes fell upon the form of Sherlock, who was thrashing about on the floor, mumbling and crying, tears flooding down his cheeks. John immediately dropped to his knees and grabbed his friend's shoulders to jostle him awake. "Sherlock, Sherlock! It's alright!"

The man's eyelids fluttered open, but his eyes rolled back into his head. John pulled his friend into his lap and propped him up against his own shoulder. "Sherlock!" he cried once more. "Wake up, it's just a dream!"

Sherlock gasped and propelled himself into John's shoulder. Realizing he had hit solid skin, the detective pushed back. In a moment's notice, Sherlock was facing John, breathing hard and staring at him with wide, red eyes.

"...Sherlock?" John called in a soft tone.

Breathing slowing down, the man blinked and rubbed at his eyes with his loose sleeve. Sherlock focused on John and took a shaky breath. He was back at Baker Street with a perfectly complete John; he was safe. "I am fine," Sherlock assured the stout man, voice shaking.

"You're far from 'fine'," John returned, scooting closer to the man in question. "You'll be lucky if you didn't tear any stitches with that fit of yours..." John trailed off, slipping into his doctor mindset.

Without another word, Sherlock removed his sling, careful to keep the cast close to his body as it fell inches to the floor. Unbuttoning his shirt with his right hand, he slipped it off, and lifted his undershirt up and off his chest. "Take a look," he offered.

Completely flabbergasted, John wondered just what had come over Sherlock. Cooperation wasn't a word Sherlock particularly understood. With a cursory glace, the doctor could tell that some of the superficial lacerations bled from impact, but were sufficiently clotted. Moving over to the man's stab wound, John peeled the clumsily-taped square (that Sherlock himself had applied) back far enough to figure that though he had bled, he had only slightly torn at the stitches. "You are lucky, but you need to be careful...You can probably let this air out for a while...just wear loose clothing." His eyes falling to Sherlock's frame, John could still see medley of scars marking the man's chest and arms. "Sherlock...what's happened to you?" John asked, eyeing a massive gouge to the side of the man's left wrist.

Sighing, Sherlock awkwardly slid back into his overshirt, closing it without buttoning it. "Nothing in particular," Sherlock answered, wondering how he could get off of the topic.

"If this is nothing, what in God's name was it that we were doing? You rarely got hurt on cases...This wasn't just fighting..." John began, swallowing the rest of his words. _This was torture._

"I said it was nothing!" Sherlock cried, pulling his legs up against his chest.

_I'm not getting anywhere... _John decided to change his tactics and began, "You know. When you called me - at St. Bart's , that is - and I looked up, I swear my heart stopped. I didn't know what to say, what I could possibly do to make you stop doing what you were doing. You said you were a fake, that you made Moriarty up for your own devices. I couldn't - I just couldn't believe you. Then you jumped. You bloody jumped, and I couldn't get over to you fast enough. A bike hit me...I hardly felt it. I just ran over with my ears ringing, heart throbbing only to see you sprawled on the pavement. It couldn't be real, I thought. My knees faltered when the nurses turned you over. It hadn't been a joke; you were the one who really jumped. You killed yourself. I checked your pulse myself...I thought you were gone."

Feeling tears spilled down his own face, John choked back the phlegm in the back of his throat and looked at Sherlock, whose face was devoid of any emotion. Steadying himself, John continued, "As much as I believed in you, as much as I rejected your obvious, final lie, I betrayed you. When the authorities overheard that I was the last to hear you speak, I was beside myself, babbling about what you had said to me. They spread the rumors. Donovan, Anderson, even Lestrade started to believe it. For a while, they even investigated me! Thinking I was somehow part of the crimes that we solved, trying to get me to force all the blame on a dead man. I couldn't do it. I couldn't drag your name through the muck anymore than I already had.

"And then there was the funeral. Just me, Mrs. Hudson, your family, and Molly. When they called for a eulogy, I could hardly speak, hardly breathe. I couldn't say what I wanted to say. I'm a coward. I couldn't say what I wanted while you were alive; I took it for granted. I felt like we had some sort of understanding, but I guess I was wrong." Sherlock shook, wanting to proclaim to the world just how wrong John was.

"Sherlock, you saved me. This hobbled, broken, bored man. You picked him up, probably for amusement, and spiffed him right back up again. I was so alone, and then I wasn't. I couldn't picture my life...I couldn't picture where I'd be without you having been...in it," John continued, sniffing back another batch of mucus. "I cursed you for being so selfish. For leaving me back alone again at the drop of pin. You tempted me with happiness and tore it from beneath my feet faster than I could comprehend. It would have been a favor had you never taken me in..." Clutching his trousers, Sherlock tried to calm his trepidation. He needed to hear the rest of the story.

"I couldn't come back to the flat, but I couldn't abandon it either. I told myself I'd never come back, but here I am. I came back, I got a job at that clinic, and I began paying both portions of the rent. I didn't want to let this place go, I couldn't. Mrs. Hudson packed up your equipment and stuffed it into your room. Mycroft told me he'd take possession of your things with my consent, but I never could quite tell him to pack what little I had left of you and go stuff it in some dark room. I couldn't have the rest of you interned. Every time, every single time I ventured to your grave, I prayed for a miracle. That you would stop being dead. That you would just return and that would be that. It soon became a wish that I knew would never come true. I continued my life, but I couldn't call it that. I died with you.

"And then you showed up. Out of the blue. Back into my life. I was shocked, I was angry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kicked you out in the first place. I don't know what I'd do if you decided to leave again..." John trailed off, embarrassed by his own emotions. Tears slipping down his face once more, he felt a clammy hand touch his own. John looked up and saw Sherlock facing him, eyes watering, lip trembling.

_I hurt John..._ Drawing another deep breath, Sherlock whispered, "I'm sorry." The words tingled in his mouth. He hadn't said those words since his mother would screech that he apologize to Mycroft for some childish shenanigan, which usually involved hitting him with his wooden pirate's scimitar.

John blinked, not sure he had heard those words from the figure before him. "You're sorry?" John asked in a confused tone.

"I'm sorry, everything is all my fault." Sherlock didn't know what else to do. John didn't forgive him, and he didn't understand what would make the situation right again. No amount of clumsy talking would help him, no stories, no made-up excuses. He couldn't tell the truth; it would hurt John more than it could possibly help. "What else can I say?" Sherlock asked earnestly.

"Do you want to stay here?" John inquired.

Looking at John, their hands, and around the flat, Sherlock answered, "Yes." _He doesn't know what to do if I left again... I die for him, I hurt him. I live for him, I kill him. Is live with him even an option anymore?_

"Good, we're not lying anymore," John sighed, pulling his own hand away. "Why did you jump?" the doctor continued, hoping he could get a straight answer this time.

Sherlock stretched out his sore legs on the floor and took a deep breath. "I-I can't say," the detective stammered. He couldn't tell John that he jumped to save his life; he couldn't admit that these last three years were for the sake of keeping John alive, he couldn't tell him that he had lost the game, that Moriarty had gotten him.

"What are you afraid of?" John asked, his voice softening further.

_You, _Sherlock thought, _I am deathly afraid of you. Your reaction to the truth. I cannot allow myself to hurt you anymore than I already have._

"I won't press on, but you still owe me an explanation...and you better not leave until you do." Sherlock nodded in agreement and John stood from his place on the floor. "Good, because my bed is calling me. It's three in the morning. You should get some sleep, too."

"Good night," Sherlock gave his friend a meager smile and watched as he left the room, carefully attuning himself to the new creaks in the steps as John ascended. He couldn't be anything more than awake. Setting to his dusty desk, Sherlock rummaged around until he could find his outdated but fully-functioning laptop. He had the evidence to his innocence lined up, and somewhere along the way, he hoped he could muster how to explain the whole process to John.

Recounting the first year leading up to and succeeding his death, Sherlock typed until he could see light streaming through the windows. Throughout the night, the detective relocated to the couch and turned on the telly in the background to help soothe the ringing in his ears. Silence was maddening, aggravating when the detective couldn't be trusted alone with his own thoughts. At least late-night infomercials for poorly-engineered products made noise (no matter how nasally and fluctuating the presenting voice), served as some entertainment, and kept his mind from focusing entirely on the subject at hand.

_John will be up soon,_ Sherlock mused, still clacking away at his laptop. The word document was the whole of thirty-one pages in length, written as a constant stream of consciousness. Details still clear in his mind, Sherlock recounted the entirety of what he thought was his first year without a pause. Blinding himself against his typos as well as poor choices in grammar and syntax, the detective steamed forward, watching as the infomercials evolved into early morning soft news.

As Sherlock stretched, he felt a pang in his midsection but ignored it. Pain was only a superficial problem as it stood, and he refused to let it get to the better of him. A healing stab wound was the least of his problems. How was he to continue living as Sherlock Holmes? Like a story put on hiatus, he couldn't simply dive right back in. There were explanations to make, family and friends to meet, evidence to present, and his old name to restore. Even then, he still needed a comprehensive story to the public, something that wouldn't expose his weakness, but wouldn't raise too many questions. Who was he trying to kid? Anything he said would raise questions. Sherlock Holmes was still trapped in the grave.

End of Chapter 5

**A/n: Now that you've read, please review (and I'll love you forever...even if you don't have an account)! I really could take this a lot of routes (though I have my general plot currently in mind)...As of now, I can promise content will be gory for sure, but I don't know if I'll develop a smidge of the latent romance as subtle as I can. Or just when I'm introducing Mycroft (well, he'll probably appear next chapter). How John's getting told the truth (next chapter maybe, too?)...Dun really know? We'll see. Bye!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/n: Hello all! :D This is a Mycroft chapter, starting from three years ago. I tweaked something from chapter three (no wife, no kids, sorry). Hope you enjoy!  
**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 6  
**

_My baby brother killed himself. _Mycroft sighed, placing the paper on the table beside him. Clasping his hands together, he slouched and took a deep breath. _He called John, said he was a fraud, and jumped off the ledge. Surely, he was not fraudulent. Sherlock may have been stubborn, impudent, and difficult, but he was no imbecile. How could Moriarty have driven him to these lengths?_

Clicking the play button on the tape that recorded Sherlock's last words (a cell phone bug he only used for instances in retrospect), Mycroft heard John's words fill the room, " Hey Sherlock, are you okay?" _Concerned, obviously. On his way to St. Bart's. Running. _

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," his brother's flustered voice commanded, tears evident in his voice. _He's protecting him..._

"No, I'm coming in," John insisted quickly.

"Just. Do as I ask. Please," Sherlock partially begged, his frustration evident. _Sherlock was protecting John from Moriarty._

John's voice continued, "Where?"

"Stop there."

"Sherlock."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." _He really does jump..._

"Oh God."

"I-I-I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology. It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." _I have never heard anything more absurd..._

"Why are you saying this?"

"I'm a fake." _Lies._

"Sherlock -"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes." _What could he possibly intend to achieve by telling John to do this?_

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could." _You are._

Pause. "I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick." _John's mentioned it to me, Sherlock didn't even know he was coming when they first met. Even if Stamford had sent Sherlock a message ahead of time, there wasn't a chance in hell he would have checked it. _

"No. Alright, stop it now."

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" _He needs a witness to his death...He faked his own death._

"Do what?"

"This phone call it's...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock tossed his phone to the ground and took the leap.

"No. Don't -" The call cut off.

_Moriarty killed himself. There was no body, no copious amounts of blood that we could abstract for DNA, but he's dead. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped if there were no other options. There were assassins on Baker Street, so John and the landlady could have been threatened. If they were threatened by Moriarty and Moriarty was too dead to call them off, Sherlock's only option was throwing himself off that building. This was the end of the game after all. By jumping, Sherlock protected John, but he needed John to bear witness. He faked his death; he needed a witness to prove it actually happened, give it some legitimacy. But John didn't see it happen exactly, he was hit by that cyclist...sent by Sherlock, I'm sure. In fact, I didn't even see the end. A laundry truck obscured my...That's how they took his body! And they replaced it with something else. Now, with whom would Sherlock fake his death? Ah, Miss Hooper it is. _

Mycroft stood from his place on his chair and retrieved Sherlock's phone, which was the one object of his brother's that had been entrusted to him. Flipping through the contacts, he found Molly and dialed the number.

After a single ring, Molly answered the phone. "Sherlock, are you alright?" Her voice sounded panicked and concerned. _Something's amiss. __  
_

"Miss Hooper, it's Mycroft," the elder brother corrected her. "Now, if you don't mind, would you tell me what sort of deal my brother struck up with you, and by the sound of your voice, just what exactly went wrong."

Mycroft heard a sigh on the other end of the phone. "He contacted me a few weeks ago, claiming that I needed to sign his death certificate for when he 'killed' himself and help him escape. I was more than willing to be needed...Single-handedly, he moved all the cameras in the area, arranged for the bike to slam into John before he could see his crash, and something to do with a laundry truck. When the body came in, I signed the certificate, but I wanted to test the blood they used just out of curiosity...I took a sample from his clothing, and the blood was Sherlock's. Sure, he could have intended that...But when I turned around and tested the DNA...everything was Sherlock's...it had - it had to be his body. I called the laundry truck driver, Alex Fletcher, only to hear his cellphone ringing in the morgue with me...The truck never showed up. I was- I was hoping it was just something to fool me, too...But...he actually d-died..."

"So my brother planned to escape, but the truck driver met his end before he could be of any use...And you're positive that it was Sherlock's DNA?" Mycroft asked, remembering the case of Irene Adler, who had managed to falsify her basal DNA records.

"He practically lived in the lab some days, used his own DNA as a guinea pig sometimes. There's more than plenty just laying around for genuine comparison..." she trailed off, depressed by the subject. Sherlock was dead. "Is that all, Mr. Holmes?" she asked on the verge of sobbing, cringing at the name.

He had heard enough. Wishing the woman well and promising to remain in touch for any developing information, he ended the call. Sherlock's phone chirped its anguish, having only a small charge left. Surely the British government could overcome its rifts, quibbles, and troubles to locate one measly cell phone charger. Mycroft ventured to find his own for the slim chance that the slots fit, using the movement as a distraction to prevent tears from spilling down his face.

_He's actually dead...My only brother, and it's my fault. I gave him Sherlock's life story, I saw the signs. I knew what he wanted to drive him to...I just thought he'd be able to get himself out of it, like he always did. What went wrong? Moriarty may have been delusional, but he still had allies. Who else would have removed his body and cleaned the blood from the scene? Who else would have made sure that the driver of that truck was killed and replaced? But why would they drive up to the curb where he was about to fall? To help him jump...How could I have been so daft? I've really screwed up. _

_Moriarty's dead, and he's made it certain that his existence couldn't be proven. Dammit Sherlock, why did you decry yourself? There was some shadow of a doubt remaining after Moriarty's trial, that there was something strange about the ruling. But even those jurors, threatened clear as day, may prove as evidence against you. When the actor Richard decided he had been paid by you to act as his arch rival, you were painted as a liar. No matter what crimes that man committed, they've all landed firmly in your lap because he was "controlled" by you._

Setting the phone on his desk beside him a little harder than he should have, Mycroft sat down and set to work. If he wanted to get anywhere to prove his brother's innocence, even after death, he would have to start with the dead Alex Fletcher and whomever removed Moriarty's body from the scene. Though Mycroft was as brilliant as his brother, his crime-related deductive skills were no where comparable to his younger brother's. Let alone with complete access to barely-serviceable police records and contaminated crime scenes. Sighing, Mycroft called Anthea, telling her to use any means necessary to learn any information about Moriarty's allies and the death of Alex Fletcher.

o-o-o

"Mycroft!" his mother called when she heard him enter the house. Hanging his coat on the rack, he placed his keys in a dish near the entry and walked into his living room, which was decorated in stodgy antiques, bereft of much human contact. His mother was still wearing black mourning garb, and her pale face poked out among her wild black locks. Though she was now in her sixties, she hardly looked it, her youth persevering. Sitting down beside her on the dusty couch, he caught a glimpse of her face, which was raw from crying. On her lap and sprawled over the coffee tables before her were photo albums, full of pictures of her children. "Wasn't he such a cute little boy?" she asked, smiling at the picture of the toddler, whose hair tumbled down his eyes as he looked up at the camera with a grin.

"He looks just like you, that's why," Mycroft replied tenderly, looking at the picture below that one. Sherlock was staring into the fish bowl from the other side at age four, his head and eyes enlarged due to the curves of the simple bowl.

Sighing, Mrs. Holmes closed the album and turned to her remaining son. "Now don't you go leaving me now, too. I'm already mad enough at Sherly. What could that boy have been thinking?" Her voice cracked towards the end, wavering between sadness over the fact, anger over the action.

"Don't worry, Mummy, I won't," Mycroft breathed, pulling her into a hug. He wanted to tell her that he was trying to protect his friends, that he had a plan to live, but didn't want her frustrations to vent out on those still living and ever-pressing what-ifs. Her son didn't die in vain, Mycroft knew. As much as he knew history, Britain's own past, he wanted to deny the thought that a great man could die so simply by accident.

"Good. I just wanted to make sure you made it home alright...I'm off to bed, so save your global upheavals for the morning, will you dear?" Standing, his mother ruffled his hair and somberly smiled. Within moments, she started for the guest room, leaving the mound of photo albums on the table.

Mycroft extracted the one from the bottom and turned to the first page. The first was a picture of himself at age seven, holding a still-pink baby Sherlock. Smiling, he flipped the page over, and saw more pictures of himself with his younger brother. Mycroft recalled that he had taken it upon himself to protect his darling little brother, the age difference wide enough to ease much contention. Eventually, in place of his mother or the staff, he became the chief executor in the boy's raising. Though he may come across overbearing, Mycroft always acted in what he thought was the boy's best interests despite Sherlock's constant scathing rebellion. Together with his own intellect and Mycroft's hovering, the young boy was oftentimes isolated from others, just as Mycroft preferred. _If he had listened to me, he never would have gotten himself into this mess...If I hadn't exposed his mess, he never would have been where he is now... _

o-o-o

For months on end, Mycroft scoured sources, spread his resources thin to find a hint of Moriarty to prove his brother's innocence. To his dismay, even with his expansive network, his power, his money, he couldn't find a trace. It's like Moriarty's allies no longer existed, just disappeared right off the map like the man's body. This was the gravest error he had made in his life, and he would be damned if he didn't exterminate what was left of those who led to his brother's demise.

Nearly a year after Sherlock's death, two of Moriarty's men were exposed, but the most the elder Holmes could extract was the fact that Moriarty existed, that he was evil. This was enough to strike a chord of interest in many news stations, questioning the suicide of Sherlock Holmes. Though many believed it was Mycroft's own efforts to cleanse his family name, others thought there was more to the young man's death than what appeared to the eye.

Before long after the news, Mummy Holmes fell ill with depression and heartbreak. Her son was still dead and now it seemed that his hand was forced in his own suicide. Her poor baby. Why hadn't they noticed sooner? When they could have helped him?

As the months passed, the fad over Sherlock's suicide receded into the backdrop once more. Less and less information was at Mycroft's disposal, and for the first time in his life, he felt as if he wouldn't get what he wanted. The one thing he wanted the most. _That's always how it works...How cliche. _

His mother grew sadder as the days piled on and Mycroft's visits became far more frequent, his business trips cut short upon her permanently moving in. Every day, he tried to comfort her, but failed; he knew he couldn't replace her youngest. Mycroft was boring, safe, while his younger brother was always in the spirit of adventure, looking for his next amusement. There was something about him, that danger, that just made everyone who cared for him want to look after him. He was dazzling. He was Mummy's favorite, and Mycroft hated him for it. He hated how a dead man could have such power over the living.

Sherlock never tried; he always lived on fanciful underpinnings. He never seemed to care about his own worth, constantly throwing himself amidst danger and in the way of harm. Mycroft, however, worked his life to get where he is today; yet, he couldn't overcome the brilliance that was his brother. Climbing higher and higher, he still couldn't reach the level of a man born seven years his junior. He loved him, he raised him, but he was by no means evidently superior. So in turn, Mycroft was cold, condescending, castigating, and vitriolic at best. He envied his brother, loved him, respected him, but he couldn't beat his pride down for a moment to show it. Selling his life's story to the one man who had the power to destroy him was childish at best, and Mycroft couldn't help but hate himself for it.

Weeks wore on, and his mother refrained from breakfasts. Then lunches and even whole dinners. She was too upset, too worn out to even notice her own atrophy. One morning, when Mycroft entered her room to deliver food that would remain untouched, he found her dead. Within days, he had her buried next to her youngest son on a typical, dreary London morning. Besides the pastor and Anthea's respective onlooking gaze from afar, Mycroft had been the only one to attend.

When he returned home, Mycroft settled on his couch and buried his face in his hands as if he were hiding his tears from the world. For the first time since childhood, Mycroft cried. Not only had he had a hand in the death of his precious brother, but that sadness carried over to his mother as well. In essence, he killed them both. _Caring is not an advantage. _Now that he had no one to care for, he was surely unstoppable, right?

Burying himself in his work, Mycroft used it to distract himself from the sad reality that was his life and days quickly turned into months without a single night's sleep. Doing more and more of his loathed legwork to occupy his time, he had more irons in the fire than he ever had before, but he still didn't feel accomplished with himself. It wasn't enough, and no matter what he did, he was bored. Half of his fun in a day was spent watching over Sherlock and seeing the reactions he gave as he squirmed to escape his elder brother's sight. The other half was encountering interesting people, Mummy, and possibly the stray abduction of John.

Life was boring. Reclining his his desk chair, Mycroft fiddled with his fingers, unsure of what else to do. It's like he won the game, but there was no one left to congratulate him, no one left to mock him, no one left to flip the table and scream about why he cheated. He had all the power he wanted, but there was nothing fun to do with it.

The phone on his desk rang, and Mycroft eyeballed it suspiciously. Two people knew the extension to this phone and they both were dead. Once Mycroft plucked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, there was no sound on the other end. Was he just imagining it? Setting down the phone back into its cradle, it rang once more. Taking it up in his hand, he answered wearily, "Hello?"

"Mycroft," a familiar voice began with slight irritation.

His eyes widened in complete shock. "Sherlock?"

"You made me call twice."

**End of Chapter 6**

**A/n: To all of you who were wondering, this isn't entirely my theory as to how Sherlock got out alive. I just kind of wanted to make him seem like a bit less of an ass while keeping true to the collection's timeline (with a few minor looked-over discrepancies that I will not spoil). I've whiteboards full of the plot of this so I hope it turns out. As it currently stands, that ring on Mycroft's finger isn't a wedding ring in terms of the show, and I didn't really want to deal with a wife and kids (whose only reason to exist would be for Mycroft's own self-image). Anyhow, please review! I really want to know what you all thought of my take on Mycroft for this story, so please, please, please indulge me. 'Till next time!  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/n: Hello everyone! Sorry for the wait! Not only has this topic been quite difficult to write to satisfaction, but my free time has been rather minimal this last week. I hope you're all doing well and I'd like to thank my lovely reviewers for the support 'n stuff. ^^ Mycroft and Sherlock meet! Hope you enjoy~  
**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 7 **

"You made me call twice."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I am a busy man, and you are dead," he returned. Is this really Sherlock?

"I need a favor," Sherlock stated, not bothering with a comeback.

"Tell me in person. Where are you?" Mycroft asked, licking his lips. How could he be alive? He was certain he was dead. Why didn't he call sooner? Was it to punish him for his cooperation with Moriarty?

"The flat."

"With John?"

"With John," the voice confirmed.

Mycroft inhaled and stood from his chair. "I'll be there in twenty." Hanging up the phone, he braced his hands against his desk and shakily exhaled. Sherlock was alive; he hadn't killed him. Numbly, Mycroft started for the door, not even considering that by some stretch of the imagination that this was a trap of sorts. No, he knew what he heard.

o-o-o

Before Mycroft had the chance to mentally prepare himself and knock on the door, Sherlock swung it open motioned for him to come inside quickly. Trying to retain his composure, Mycroft stepped inside and watched as his brother close the door behind him. There was no doubt about it. The person standing before him was Sherlock. _Feet socked...he's normally barefoot. Why is he covering them? Loose jeans, baggy T-shirt, untied blue dressing gown. His arm is broken. He's lost weight. There are faint scars on his hands, and his face...Those are rather new and those bruises are starting to yellow. John wouldn't have hit him quite that much upon returning...What were you doing?_

"You want to know what I could have possibly been doing," Sherlock verbalized, studying his brother's face carefully. As much as the elder brother would claim otherwise, Sherlock could see as Mycroft's expressions faltered.

Mycroft nodded. "Of course, but you don't intend to tell me without my working for it, do you?"

"Who else but me to keep prodding you about that diet of yours?" Sherlock jabbed at his familiar pecking ground despite seeing his brother's healthier frame. The response was just far too formulated, too familiar to pass up. _Did I do this to him? Was I his diet? He always did worry..._

Mycroft decided to drop the banter, realizing that Sherlock's last comment hit a little to close to reality. Sherlock was the reason he dropped his indulgence in sweets. How could he reward himself with something that brought him pleasure when he had committed such a grave sin? "What is it?" he asked, looking around the room. Though he had offered to retrieve the entirety of Sherlock's belongings at John's dictation, his offer was never taken, and the flat showed it with Sherlock's possessions still strewn about.

The detective smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." Pulling a folded paper from his pocket, he handed it to his elder brother. "There are several locations in which I've used for safekeeping of information. They are numbered in the order I obtained them. Once you've gathered it all, read through it and return it. This will answer all of your questions," Sherlock explained as his brother unfolded the paper and studied the thirty-odd locations that it contained, spanning multiple continents.

Agreeing, Mycroft examined his brother once more and felt that at any moment, he could lose him through a floor crack. "I'm assuming by your calling me, you need assistance with something regarding this? Simply retrieving it is no matter," the elder Holmes began, attempting to prolong the conversation until he could find more suitable things to say.

"You'll know it when you see it," Sherlock answered flatly. There were somethings he'd rather not say aloud, including admitting just how much he needed his brother to help him with his situation.

Without the bickering, their conversation fell flat and silence permeated the room. All the questions he had, all the times he wanted to apologize, stole themselves away from Mycroft's mind, leaving him with little to talk about. "Where's John?" Mycroft finally brought himself to ask, realizing the stout, jumper-clad man was not present.

"Out. Buying groceries. He'll return within the hour. How's Mummy?" Sherlock inquired, breaking another awkward lapse in conversation. When Mycroft's face immediately soured, Sherlock turned to worry. "Mycroft," the detective growled, snapping his brother back into reality. "What happened?"

"She died," Mycroft breathed, "Over a year ago." No, he would refrain from crying, the elder Holmes told himself. _And it's because you died. Because of me. But why didn't you come back sooner? __  
_

Sherlock didn't know how to respond, the news shocking him to his core. Taking a step back, the detective accused, "You're lying. She was a perfectly healthy woman."

Mycroft took a deep breath and continued, "I'm afraid I'm not. I had her buried in the plot next to yours."

"How?" Sherlock's voice shook. How could someone he loved die while he was protecting them? That was against the rules.

Watching his brother's expression morph into sadness, eyes begging that he wasn't at fault, Mycroft couldn't bear to tell him the truth. "Heart attack. We didn't even see it coming," he lied with as straight a face he could manage.

Though skeptical, Sherlock took it for the truth, figuring he would accept whatever kindness his brother was offering. He didn't want more on his plate than what was already there. "I guess I owe Mummy a visit, don't I?" the detective polled, smiling weakly at his brother.

"You do," Mycroft answered curtly, meeting his gaze. _His eyes are dead._

"Are you disappointed, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, recalling the last time he saw his brother in the photo at his funeral and how the image haunted him for the last three years.

Tapping his umbrella against the wood floor, he replied, "I've yet to decide." Phone beeping, Mycroft pulled it out and read a text from Anthea. "And work summons...Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, brother," Sherlock mirrored with a touch of sadness.

Mycroft's eyes widened. Surely it had been years, decades even, since Sherlock had used the word brother without sarcasm or virulence. On impulse, he stiffly wrapped his arms around his sibling (cast and all), and was surprised as he felt Sherlock's right arm snake around his side. Though Sherlock was a tall man with a bulky cast, his brother was taller. Mycroft could now figure how thin his brother was, how much smaller, more fragile he seemed. Whatever he had gone through, it hadn't been fun, much less part of the game. After a few seconds, Mycroft broke the awkward embrace. "Never again," he stated.

"Never mentioned?"

"Never heard," he finished, taking another step away.

"Good, we understand each other then. I thought 'caring wasn't an advantage'?" Sherlock questioned, trying to get the last point in.

Mycroft turned to the door and turned the knob. "It seems we do, and it still is not," he mused. Having one final glance at Sherlock, Mycroft said his farewells and departed.

"Goodbye," Sherlock murmured to the closed door. Emotions getting the better of him, the detective sauntered into his room and closed the door behind him. Though John wasn't in the flat, he needed some time to be alone. Flopping on the bed, he groaned as his midsection griped against his careless movement. Within moments, Sherlock overcame the pain and stared at his dusty ceiling, inhaling the fine layer that had settled into his bedding.

Sneezing, the detective propelled himself forward and stood. This room wasn't comfortable; there was no one in it. No life. Without thinking over the ramifications, Sherlock tromped out of the room and up the stairs. Swinging the door to John's quarters open, the detective took a step inside.

As expected of John, his room was relatively tidy, his bed perfectly made. Easing his way onto it, Sherlock inhaled the distinct scent in the sheets. Though figuring he was probably now crossing into some strange realm of flatmate taboo, the man could hardly find himself caring. This was comforting. Familiar. Home.

Blocked by a cast to his left and a stab wound to his right, Sherlock grumbled at his inability to roll over. He was stuck on his back like a turtle, belly showing. Exposed. Rubbing his temples, he realized he was trying to do everything he could to fend off any thoughts about his family. Within a moment of the realization, memories flooded to him.

Sherlock could still remember the grand feud that took place between himself and his brother, creating a riveting schism in the Holmes household. From there on in, he declared Mycroft his arch-enemy and any trust he had granted the man forgotten. Mycroft was a threat to his independence, his identity, his hobbies, and essentially his entirety as a constant hovering entity that watched his every move, trying to regulate his life as he best saw fit. To keep up with his dislike (as admitting any form of concern meant defeat), Sherlock spurned his brother with his past boredom-induced drug abuses and dangerous lifestyle. He knew Mycroft cared, and he used that very fact against him.

"Caring is not an advantage". That line practically said it all. Sherlock knew Mycroft didn't bother to point out caring was a "disadvantage" because he truly does care a bit too much for the safety of his little brother (though in a twisted way that can be alternately written off as an intent to annoy). Admitting he cared was admitting he himself had a disadvantage, and that would give Sherlock a decisive victory in their war of wit and power. The last person Mycroft would admit defeat to was the only person he feared losing to, the only person he felt was a man on equal ground.

Their battle was never-ending, wagering who would come out on top. Neither felt completely superior to the other, and there was always a tense unease that furthered their fighting, a fear of inferiority. Without that fear, the battle would end, the result an established fact. Their crossfire a result from their repeated reassertion in dominance, the effects are only temporary. Always inferior, fighting to be superior. _And it is absurd. Childish._

Mycroft, infuriating Mycroft, hugged him in some sort of strange mutual understanding for the first time in years. Any previous feuds were somehow trivialized by his own return. Mycroft's mothering and worrying had gotten the better of him, and Sherlock genuinely missed his brother. As much as they fought, Mycroft wanted him to live and thrive. His new enemies deemed it their sole goal to tear what little remnant he had of a heart and smash it into pieces innumerable pieces. While laying alone, wondering if these breaths were to be his last, he had even wished the likes of Mycroft would swoop down from his seemingly-omniscient podium and save him, driving those who opposed him to the ends of the Earth. Instead of begging for Mummy, he cried for Mycroft.

_Oh Mummy..._Throwing his hand over his eyes, Sherlock felt as hot tears streamed down his face. He couldn't even remember the last time he had talked to her, let alone seen her. All he could remember was the crying face from the photos. She had left him with subtle love, and he left her with heartbreak in turn. What a wonderful child.

Chills coursing his body, Sherlock pulled himself under John's covers and continued sobbing. His chest aching, mind throbbing, the distressed man was soon relieved by sleep.

o-o-o

Before heading for the grocery store, John popped by the clinic and told Doctor Owens that he would be needing some time off for personal reasons. Begrudgingly with his questions unanswered, Owens granted him three days to return the favors of the overwork he had endured in his stead. Somehow, John felt as if he would never return to work the demands of the ICU with the latest reinsertion into his life. When he stepped out of the building, John took a deep breath. Life was reverting back as it should.

Humming, the doctor strolled into the grocery and purchased milk, sugar, a couple of packages of pasta, two jars of sauce, a couple of apples, some grapes, and a package of fresh pastries. This should tide them for the next day or two. Though it was slightly frustrating having to navigate the store (which had undergone a drastic remodel since his last trip), John walked with a bit of a spring in his step. He had someone else to buy for. As long as Sherlock remained in the flat, as long as he stayed, he wouldn't mind having to go out for milk. John might have even been fine with obscure experiments, but he figured that he shouldn't give that thought away just yet. Give that man a centimeter, he'll stretch it to span the land mass. Give him nothing, he'll span the Earth to spite you. John chuckled, there was no winning, was there?

The woman behind the register smiled at him, and John realized he was already grinning like a mad fool. Sherlock was home, waiting for him (or talking to Mycroft, rather). The flat wasn't empty, and he was far from crazy.

Paying the clerk, he took his change and bags in his arms. On his walk home, John took in the cityscape, cataloging the changes that he had missed. Small video rental stores had morphed into music stores and coffee shops, bookstores into coffee shops. Within fifteen minutes, the doctor arrived at the flat. The door was already unlocked, and John pressed in, thinking nothing of Sherlock's carelessness. It's not like he had left the flat unattended.

Stepping into the kitchen, John placed the bags on the counter and put the groceries away. The rest of the flat was silent and gave John a sense of unease. Something was wrong. Walking into the living room, John searched for Sherlock's figure lounging on the couch, but was greeted with nothing. "Sherlock?" John called into the empty room and no response came. Making his way for his flatmate's room, he knocked on the thin door and called the detective's name once more. No reply. John pushed the door open and peered in. There was no one in sight.

_Where could he have gone? Don't tell me he left...Oh God. _Bolting for the bathroom, John noticed the light was off and the door ajar. With a quick push and a flick of the light switch, the doctor saw nothing out of place. _Shit, shit, shit. Where is he? Sherlock...Was I just imagining it? I've finally gone crazy, haven't I? Wait! If he left, he probably would have taken his violin. _

Returning to the living room, John located the case and sighed. He tried to escape tightness in his chest, eyes stinging. Either Sherlock left or he was imagining his return in the first place. "Sherlock?" he roused once more to a barren, echoing flat. "Dammit Sherlock!" John yelled, growing angrier by the second. What had he done wrong for Sherlock to leave him again? Was he even there to begin with? Why was his mind dragging the detective back from the dregs now of all times? But Mrs. Hudson, surely she had seen him, too? Choking back a sob, John stormed up the stairs. His room was the only safe spot from Sherlock, no possessions, no presence whatsoever. Maybe he _should_ call Mycroft to finally remove his brother's crap. It was oppressive, and he needed to get away from it for his own sanity.

Pushing through into his room, John immediately darted for his bed, hoping to sleep whatever fit he had gotten himself into off. Eyes widening, the doctor stopped dead in his tracks. His bed wasn't made and a mop of curly black hair poked from underneath the covers. _Sherlock. Oh thank God. _John sunk onto the edge of the bed and stared that the lanky man before him. He wasn't imagining a thing. Ruffling Sherlock's curls, John remained perched on the bed for a moment before standing. "Why in here?" John asked the sleeping man as he left. Closing the door behind him as soundlessly as he could manage, John set off to clean. Mrs. Hudson promised she would be over for lunch, and he needn't her complaining about the flat's maintenance.

**A/n: That's all for today, folks! Sorry it was a bit of a filler, but next chapter should answer a few questions and maybe introduce some more conflict (yay for conflict?). I hope this didn't disappoint for the wait. Anywhoodle, now that you've read, please review! Oh, and as of December 1st, I will probably not have much internet available to me. That could last anywhere from 5-10 days so updating might be a bit of a challenge. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! Opinions are greatly appreciated and adored! Bye! :D  
**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/n: Woo :) Hello, all! It feels like it's been forever, but here I am...alive, somehow! Anyhow, I'd like to thank my reviewers! Verna, Indigo3468- Thank you! And there we are, updated! briongloid fiodoir: Well I hope this continues to please :D. Jessica: I've actually been linked on tumblr? -Honored- I'd love to see this post, but it probably has been long eaten up by the vast world of tumblr. Mewknight: Yup, no cuddles. I doubt this will be too much of a Johnlock fic, but that won't stop implications. Artemis Klein- Thank you! -flails around like a happy moron- I'm glad it's your favorite thus far, and I hope I don't disappoint! ****Anywhoodle~ Please enjoy! :D**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 8**

_Opening his eyes, Sherlock squinted against the sun through the shade of the tree. He blinked hard and rolled over onto his stomach, shunning the light as purple and black specks danced through his vision. The ground beneath him was warm, kissed by the light that he strove to eschew. Sherlock cursed the irony. How could he loathe the sun for its brilliance, yet cherish it for its heat? The dreary weather was nice, but the wetness and cold that accompanied it made his body shudder, an involuntary reaction. He could ignore hunger and a fair amount of pain, but the temperature was the one thing he could never manage to control, serving as the sole thing to disrupt his thought process. Scarves, jackets, layers upon layers of clothing, all allowing him to regulate himself without a second thought._

_Today was warm, no need for such things. A perfect day for a nap, a day Mycroft would surely avoid taking a step outside, Sherlock mused as he glanced over at the chemistry textbook, left forlorn beside him. Picking up the book, he brushed aside the dirt and closed it with a satisfying sound._

_"Sherlock?" he heard his mother's voice in the distance._

_"Mummy?" the boy returned, grinning like a child of his age._

_Within moments, the woman came into view. Black locks spanning her back, they bounced along with the light spring in her step. Her face, defined by its high cheekbones and angular jawline, was fixed with a kind smile as her eyes twinkled to match. "What are you doing over there?" her voice rang. "You couldn't have been taking a nap..." his mother teased, noticing the leaves caught in his messy curls._

_"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock denied, oblivious to the dead giveaway against him. There was no way Sherlock Holmes would ever do such a dreaded thing, not even at the age of five. No, he was resting his eyes. Yes, resting his eyes, indeed._

_Giggling, she waved her son over with a single hand, and the boy sprinted to meet her call. With a swift motion, she plucked a leaf from the back of his head, and presented it to him. "Now I don't suppose you were fighting off some scurvy land Kraken?"_

_"Mummy!" Sherlock whined, completely flustered. Why did his mother have to bring up something he might have said a year ago? A whole year. He was far beyond that, and he certainly didn't need any help realizing how silly that phase of his was. What with his parading around the house with that wooden sword, whacking many an inanimate object (and Mycroft) while clad in an eye patch (shimmied together from black card stock and yarn from Mummy's knitting basket, which didn't help with his swordsmanship skills by any standard), a striped shirt, a set of pantaloons, and worst yet, the grease paint that he used in place of a beard._

_Picking out the rest of the leaves, she smoothed her hand against his head in an attempt to remove the matted hair. "Well then, what were you doing?"_

_"I was...experimenting!" Sherlock proclaimed as his mother led him back to the manor._

_"Whatever you say, dear," she crooned, leading him further through the forested part of their yard towards the manor._

_The child shot her a dissatisfied look, but knew there was no use trying to defend his claims. Mummy knew better._

_Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed his mother to lead him. The walk seemed to fade into eternity until the light behind his covered vision dimmed, and a chill coursed through his body. Opening his eyes, Sherlock examined the surroundings and immediately realized that they were no longer heading in the correct direction. "Mummy, where are we going?" he asked, his voice wavering as the scenery grew more dismal. Crows perched on the branches of the now-dying trees while the sun no longer shone as if it had evolved entirely into night. "Mummy, where are you taking me?" Sherlock asked once more, dropping the chemistry book. Reflexively, he drug his heels into the ground, but he felt himself being dragged further into the darkening forest, evolving into shades he had never previously conceived._

_"We're going to bury the dead," his mother simply replied, the grip on his hand intensifying._

_"But I'm not dead!" he screamed._

_No longer able to see where he was heading, the boy stumbled along, dragged by his mother, his cries unheard by all else save their desperate echo. With a sudden stop, his mother relinquished her hold. Before Sherlock could realize that the strange numbing sensation meant his freedom and make a move in any direction to escape, he could feel two large hands press against his back and send him falling forward. The sensation was overly familiar, and his limbs flailed beneath him as he screamed for dear life. He wasn't dead. He didn't want to die. With a breath-stealing thud, Sherlock landed on the ground below and slipped into unconsciousness._

_o-o-o_

_When he awoke, he felt a weight bearing on his back. As he slid himself out from underneath the mass, he could feel his body objecting to its mistreatment, completely sore, broken, and bruised. Sherlock finally escaped the weight, and looked to see what was on top of him. As if on a cue, the light brightened enough for him to see the dirtied face of his mother. Pulling himself over to the body, he checked for a pulse, but couldn't find one. She was dead; she had followed him into the grave._

o-o-o

Sherlock jerked awake and sunk back down into John's bed at a complaint from his midsection. Pools of sweat puddling around him, he kicked off the covers and laid in the cooling jurisdiction of the overhead ceiling fan, which was set on low. His breathing, initially rapid, calmed down, and Sherlock swallowed back the sickness he felt somersaulting in his gullet. Taking several deep breaths, Sherlock slowly rose to put his feet on the floor, his back now drying. With a tight shudder, he stood, noting that he would certainly have to take another shower before doing anything else. Maybe he would even change John's sheets. Maybe. The last thing he wanted to smell was himself.

As Sherlock took a step forward, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he braced himself against John's nightstand to steady himself. Taking another deep, shuddering breath, he regained his balance without the assistance. Thoughts swarmed about his mind like a winter's flurry, and he fought with his consciousness to simmer down as he drew closer to John's closed door. _John must have come in and found me in here...Yes, he did...Dammit. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And Mummy, Mycroft was sparing me...I knew he was lying. How pathetic. How pathetic I am. Did I really take her to the grave with me? There's no winning, is there?_

Making it to the door, Sherlock started down the stairs and groped the handrail, but loosened his grip when he realized John may be somewhere nearby. He needed to maintain his composure. John didn't need to know there was something wrong. It was bad enough he had slipped up as much as he had already: hugging the stout man, his grand plan to have John kick him out that backfired horribly, those bloody nightmares. He was weak.

Once he made it down the stairs, he found John examining him from his place in the living room, wet washrag in hand. Setting the dishrag on the nearest end table, John made his way up to the younger man, who walked to meet him halfway. Brows furrowed, mouth curved into a deep-seated frown, John questioned, "Are you alright? You're as pale as a ghost."

"I'm fine," Sherlock brushed off and catalogued a cursory glance of the cleaner living room. "Mrs. Hudson is coming for lunch," he stated rather than asked.

"She is," John confirmed, still in awe of Sherlock's basic deductive abilities.

Before Sherlock could assume when she was arriving, he heard a few light whip cracks and watched one of the windows shatter before his eyes. Hitting John with the entirety of his weight, Sherlock sent the two of them careening towards the ground without a second thought. From their place on the floor, Sherlock braced himself just above the smaller, older man to prevent his weight from resting entirely on top of him.

Completely flabbergasted, John looked past Sherlock's shoulder to see gunshots riddle the wall above them and felt the detective's body hovering just above his own. Unable to see the man's expression, John laid in silence, wondering just when the barrage would end. After ten seconds of continuous fire, the shots ceased, and the two remained as they were for another five minutes to increase their chances against this simply being a waiting game.

Sherlock warily stood and examined the bullet holes and the holes in the windows, locating the source of the threat. Unable to see anything troublesome, he beckoned John up and ushered him into the kitchen, where the views from the windows were obscured. Telling John to stay, he ventured out himself to examine the new collections of holes in the wall, comparing them roughly to where they were standing beforehand. Either the shooter was a terrible shot or this was a warning. _Leave, or I will kill him, is it?_

John stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock work with a concerned expression wrought on his face. _This has something to do with what he was doing before returning, doesn't it?_

Feeling John's eyes carve into him, Sherlock yelled, "I can feel you looking at me, and stop that infernal thinking!" Sherlock's hands shook, left hand nervously fingering out a concerto out of habit while John's gaze barred into him heavier than before._ I didn't finish the job, _he chided himself. _There is no end to them is there? Do I just leave? Where do I confront them? Why are they still doing this? I thought I was done._

"Sherlock?" John called, trying to catch his friend's attention.

Turning around, the detective roared, "What?!"

"You'd better sit down," John suggested calmly as he walked up to his friend. When John took Sherlock's shoulder with his hand, Sherlock smacked him away and waved him off to the kitchen. Obliging, John returned and pulled a chair up to the doorway to watch Sherlock, which only served to aggravate the detective further.

"Will you quit -" Sherlock started, a knock at the door startling him before he could finish. Jumping, he stared at the door, and slowly walked up to the peephole. To his relief, it was simply Mrs. Hudson, carrying what seemed to be a mountain of food. "Shit," Sherlock muttered. _What am I supposed to do with Mrs. Hudson? What if they go after her, too? Again. No, I have to figure how to get out of here..._

Rolling his eyes, John pushed Sherlock against the wall and peered through the peephole as well, only to see Mrs. Hudson, who now looked slightly agitated at the wait. John opened the door as wide as he could without hitting Sherlock with the doorknob, which was still short enough to prevent her from seeing the state of one of the windows.

Smiling, John greeted, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid Sherlock is sleeping right now...Could you come back later?"

"Oh, alright," she returned with a frown. "Well, you two can take this food for later then...Give me a ring when he's awake, will you dear?"

"No problem," he gleamed, taking the food from her arms as she offered it up.

With a bit of disappointment and brief words of farewell, Mrs. Hudson returned to her own flat, and John closed the door with the back of his arm and turned to face Sherlock. "Why did you send her away? What if that happens to her, too?" he demanded, his face now flushed with anger and confusion.

"And it's safer here, where something like that _has _happened?" John pressed with a glare, shifting the full containers in his arms. "If whoever it was that was just shooting at us wanted to go after Mrs. Hudson, wouldn't it be better to do it in front of us? It would make a better point."

Sherlock took a deep breath, of course John was right. Now he had to return to examine the mirage of bullet holes riddling their walls, wondering just how many went through that wall and into the dim hallway. _Thank goodness she was running late…And won't necessarily notice something like that immediately, per se…_

When Sherlock took a step in that direction, John placed the containers on the end table near the door and stopped him. "No, what is going on here? Why is someone after you?"

Sherlock sighed, "They're not after me, they're after _you_." _I at least should tell him this much…_

"What? No, why would they go after me? They could have had me this whole time while I was cleaning this musky mess," John returned, gesturing towards the relatively clean living room.

Groaning, the detective explained, "Of course they wouldn't just shoot you, you just said why yourself. There's little point in just shooting you when there's no one else around. It hardly makes a point."

"Since we live together, wouldn't it make just as much of a point to just shoot me and let you find my body? It's not like Mrs. Hudson. No, they started shooting the second you came down," John rallied.

Shaking his head, Sherlock remarked with a glint of sadness resonating in his eyes, "You don't understand, John, that's _not how it works._"

John grimaced, communication with the detective was never easy, but this was making his previous encounters look like dips in the kiddie pool. "Fine, then what on Earth is 'it' and why does it work in such an arbitrary manner? This isn't like you Sherlock, to be considering something so singular in a broad situation like this! Unless you knew what was going on. Tell me, I think I'm plenty involved!"

"John," Sherlock sighed, shooting him a look of 'please don't make me tell'.

"Don't John me, just tell me what's wrong!" the doctor demanded.

The detective whined, now somehow still didn't feel like the right time. _No, I just don't want to tell him the truth…_ "Just trust me," he insisted, cringing at the words as they came out. This wasn't how he wanted to handle the situation either.

"Trust you? I think you've quite a bit to go before I can do _that_ again. You withholding all of this doesn't help your case. Why do you seem to think that you have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You're not Atlas. Hell, he doesn't even bloody exist! There's a reason for that. It's not how people are supposed to live their lives!"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed, not sure what else to say.

"Stop apologizing!" John cried, face contorting in irritation. "I've already forgiven you for lying to me. I know bloody well you had your reasons, but that doesn't make you any less of an _idiot_ for not asking for help. With what I see, you've gone through a lot. You _needed _help. The Sherlock Holmes I know avoided apologies like the plague."

Sherlock glowered at his only friend. "What makes you think I'm the same man? Or are you so heavily-enraptured by this fallacious idol you've painted me as that you can hardly allow yourself the mental breadth to comprehend what is clearly standing before you?"

"Excuse me?" John begged. "'Fallacious idol'? Really Sherlock. No, I obviously don't remember the early morning violin recitals, the body parts ossifying or melting or what have you in our fridge, the times you'd ignore me, yell at me to stop thinking, or grab your phone from the goddamn table beside you or your own pocket. In that case, I can't remember all those times you'd get yourself into pile of shit and I'd come to the rescue and hose you off, or even those times you did the same for me! No, I am under the impression that Sherlock Holmes was the best roommate, most considerate, pious man I know. Why he isn't a saint, I haven't the slightest!"

The conversation lapsed, and John continued on his rant, seeing Sherlock's souring face. "I know how much sugar you like in your tea, what piques your strange interest, how disturbing you find certain dolls – don't look at me like I'm lying! – how you like your socks folded for God's sake! And I bloody well know you bring out your vocabulary when you're trying to deceive someone or belittle them to get your way. It doesn't work on me, but it seems you've forgotten that!"

Sherlock murmured, "Why do you care so much?"

"Because you're my friend, idiot. My idiotic, brilliant best friend," John grinned.

Lip quivering, Sherlock bit it, trying to hold back any emotion he might have harbored. When he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's, he had figured John would simply get over it after a month or two, find himself a nice lady, get married, and have many adorable children, all blessed with his kindness and dimples. His sacrifice was surely worth that in the least. He knew how much John was worth to him (after all the man was probably the sole reason he ventured on his maddening escapade), but the feeling was mutual.

"Will you let me help you?" John tenderly asked, thinking he had finally won over the stubborn man.

Sherlock stared at John's earnest face, which made a portion of his resolution waver. "I'm sorry, John, this is my problem, and I somehow have to make it right."

John sighed, he wasn't getting anywhere. "Don't you dare think about doing anything drastic," he lectured.

_Well, then what exactly am I supposed to do? I'm sorry, John, but I cannot do that. _"I won't," Sherlock replied, hoping to get John off his case.

"Good, well, I suppose this food needs to go in the fridge…And we might as well have lunch while we're at it. We'll have to thank her after all this blows over somehow. Oh, and we might as well clear out that window before anyone notices. That and replace it. It's a miracle no one's been sent out."

"I suppose no one associated the whip sound with a gun and a silencer," Sherlock replied with a shrug, it never surprised him when people failed to notice the details of their surroundings. "Or saw the state of our poor window," he concluded, staring at the holes. To the average person's defense, there was such a heavy concentration in one area that it seemed as if a baseball had plowed through it in its stead.

John chuckled lightly and picked up the food, walking back to the kitchen. When Sherlock glanced over the floor space before the doorway, he was surprised to see a small note folded in its wake. While John was turned away behind the door of the fridge, Sherlock carefully bent and silently snatched it up. Judging from the footprints John left on it from stepping on it twice with the same shoe, each print leading a separate direction, he figured that there was little chance the deliveryman was still outside. He must have delivered it during their argument. Walking out of John's line of vision, the detective opened it and saw an address clearly printed along with a time. Instantly memorizing it, he shoved the note in his pocket for later disposal. He knew where he was going to be at eleven tonight.

Grabbing his cell phone and the phone book, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen and sat in the furthest chair from John's preparations. Flipping through the pages, he eventually found their usual repairmen still in business and dialed the number on his phone.

John placed a hearty helping of shepherd's pie in front of Sherlock and set his own helping before his seat. Sherlock handed John the phone after pressing the green dial button.

Putting the phone up to his ear, John was confused until he heard Jamie, the repairman, on the other end. With a quick grin at Sherlock, the doctor said, "Hi, Jamie. It feels like it's been ages, but some kids just threw a baseball through ou – my window. Could you come over – you still remember where I live? – that's great. Yeah, just one of those windows in the living room – yes, those. He sure did manage to break those, didn't he? Alright, 3:00 this afternoon? Sounds great."

John handed the phone back to Sherlock and laughed. "You know, we were such frequent customers they bought a ton of that size. Three years and they still haven't run out of them. Ha, who would have thought?"

"Well, that makes things convenient. Three, then. I'll be up in your room, and I'll be quiet. I promise," Sherlock offered while taking a scoop of his pie with a fork. It was still rather warm. She must have just baked it when she dropped by. "I missed her cooking," Sherlock muttered, eating another forkful.

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" John affirmed, trying to keep the conversation alive.

Sherlock sifted through his mind until he came upon another related subject matter. "So this new boyfriend of hers?"

John looked over at the detective and finished chewing before speaking, "He's hardly 'new'. She's been dating him for a year and a half now. He's a widower, accountant, has with three kids. All girls. The eldest two are married. The kids are cute though. The oldest girl has two boys, twelve and ten, while the younger has three, a set of twin girls, who are about seven, and a brand new boy. Sometimes all the kids meet in her flat for lunch and she invites me over…It's rather nice. She'll probably invite us both the next time."

Sherlock smiled. That seemed to fit her somehow in his mind, acting as a grandmother to several young children as opposed to actually having to raise kids (though she can arguably be considered a mother figure to both of the boys in 221B). "That's good I suppose," he replied. "It suits her."

"It does, the younger ones even call her 'Gramma'," John persisted with the topic.

After finishing lunch, John washed the dishes while Sherlock hopped into the shower for a quick rinse. With half an hour left before Jamie arrived, John straightened up the rest of the house while Sherlock fidgeted on the couch, trying to get comfortable. Ten minutes left, Sherlock took his laptop up to John's room and sat on his bed, prepared to amuse himself for the next hour or two.

A knock sounded on the door, and John confirmed that it was Jamie standing outside. Letting him inside, the man set the replacement window against the wall and set to work while John sat on one of the armchairs to watch. "This place 'ardly changed…" the repairman remarked.

"Yeah, I know…"

"Miss 'im?" the sixty-year-old asked while clearing away the broken frame.

"I did, but I realized he's still be with me now," John answered simply, thinking of the man sitting upstairs.

Jamie chuckled, "A'course. All 'is crap is still 'ere. Can't believe you've 'eld a touch for 'im all these years."

"We – we never!"

"Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

o-o-o

Once inside John's room, Sherlock placed his laptop on the end of John's bed, and carefully set to his original intent. Opening the first drawer in the nightstand, the detective extracted the doctor's gun. _John always was a creature of habit...It's fully loaded, too. _Stashing the weapon in the back of his waistband, Sherlock set to work compiling the rest of his story.

o-o-o

Daylight shifted into night with the passing of mindless chatter and thoughtless television. After brushing his teeth and calls of goodnight, John shifted up to his room and laid down in his bed. With his day of habitation, Sherlock had made the bed further smell like John's own shampoo (as it was the only kind available in the flat), but it held Sherlock's own strange scent as well.

Rolling over, John thought back on the day's events and a pit of unease settled firmly in his stomach. Sherlock never exactly promised to stay, to not do something brash.

Once that thought occurred to him, John bolted upright and threw his door open in time to clearly hear the front door closing carefully behind him. Turning on his light, John slid on socks and shoved his feet into his tennis shoes. When he realized he wasn't wearing trousers, John shoved his shoed feet through the leg holes as he looked at the clock on his night stand, reading 22:35. Pulling the drawer of the table open, John realized that his gun was missing. Only Sherlock could have taken it. _Shit, shit, shit. What is he planning? _

Bolting down the stairs, John grabbed one of his jumpers left abandoned on the table and threw it on over his plain gray T-shirt. Practically tripping into the doorknob, John flung open the door, closing it behind him. The doctor flooded down the steps and out the main door. Taking a deep breath, John darted to the right, praying that his assumption was correct to catch up with Sherlock. Whatever he was doing, he surely needed to be stopped. This couldn't end well.

To his temporary relief, the doctor saw Sherlock walking at a brisk pace down the corner of an alleyway. Jogging a moment to get a tad closer, John slowed to a tromping walk, the sound echoing off the nearby buildings. Not caring how loud he was, the doctor hoped to alert the detective that he was following him without screaming out into the darkness.

When John turned the bend of the corner, Sherlock stood about 10 meters before him, gun poised straight at him. Squinting, John could see that Sherlock had removed his sling from his left arm, leaving the cast in place. Arm quivering from either pain, muscular atrophy, or the sheer thought of aiming towards his only friend, Sherlock commanded, "Go home."

"What are you doing?" John asked, slightly daunted by the weaponry before him, held by the unstable man.

"Doesn't matter, just go home where it's safe," Sherlock insisted with pleading eyes. "I don't want to hurt you."

John sighed, "I know you won't." Slowly, be began making his way over to the detective, whose hold on the gun was wavering with the passing second.

"I will and I have, so just go! Stop getting so close!" he cried, his tone growing louder as John's pace increased.

"Just listen –" John began, now within a meter of his friend, having passed several bags of trash lining the ground.

"No!" Sherlock cut off. "Stop talking for a minute."

"Why?"

"Shh," Sherlock chided, lowering the gun for a moment, straining his ears to hear the sound. Footsteps were quickly approaching, ready for ambush.

A man came into view, wearing an over-sized hoodie and jeans, gun taut before him with an awkward rigid hold as if he had never shot one. _Nervous, it's his first time. Greenhorn. Trying to impress. Gang leader, of course. Ah, they were related. No wonder. This should be the end._

With one swift motion, Sherlock kicked John square in the chest and sent him tumbling over one of the bags he had ignored.

When John felt the wind leave his body and head slam into the concrete, he had a sickening feeling of déjà vu as two shots rang out into the night.

**End of Chapter 8**

**A/n: Hope you enjoyed (even though you all probably want to beat me...That's fine, too, really). That's not the -worst- of my news either. My internet will be off officially sometime today (as opposed to last week as it was supposed to be), but if I push out an update due to non-internet boredom, I will somehow run to the library or elsewhere to post (unless school and work and stuff get busy enough to push my non-procrastination button). We'll see. This next post shouldn't take a whopping three weeks to put out, regardless. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/n: Hello all! That was quite a terrible place to leave it wasn't it? I was rather surprised I didn't get shanked by a friend of mine…Anyway, as some sort of reasoning with this crazy plot, I've realized that this last chapter actually concludes the SECOND day Sherlock has been home. Oh my goodness are these long days! I honestly thought maybe four? But no. Two. Anyhow, here's the continuation~**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 9**

Ears ringing from the all-too-familiar sounds of gunshots in a relatively small space, John rose quickly against the throbbing in his head as he heard a body slam hard against the cold pavement. His blurry vision fell first upon on the source of the noise, the shooter, who was collapsed dead on the ground, a gunshot wound in his skull. His eyes immediately switched to Sherlock, who was still barely standing, hand pressing against the right side of his neck with blood spurting through his lanky fingertips, left hand clinging onto the weapon. Darting to his friend's side, John held his shoulders and said, "Sherlock, I need you to just sit down, alright?" The doctor eased the other man down to his knees and knelt beside him.

While the detective awkwardly pulled his legs out from underneath him and placed the gun on the ground , the doctor quickly extracted the plain cotton shirt from underneath his jumper and wadded it up._ No spinal injury…He can move his extremities. Carotid._ Pulling the man's left side close against his own chest, John rooted around for the detective's phone with his left hand and cupped Sherlock's hand with the shirt to increase pressure on the injury. Face now partially buried in John's torso, Sherlock moaned, deep vocal cords resonating against the other man. "It will be alright," John crooned, disallowing worry from seeping into his voice. _Don't concern the patient._

Within seconds he located the phone in its usual right hand coat pocket and extracted it. He shuffled through the numbers on the call history list until he came upon what he thought to be Mycroft's number. As it rang, John shoved the phone in between the crick of his shoulder and neck and pressed both hands against the cloth. Sherlock fell limp against him and John found the man's wrist to take a pulse. To his relief, he wasn't completely losing his friend in his arms.

On the final ring, Mycroft answered on the other line, "Hello."

John breathed out a sigh of relief. "Look, Mycroft."

"John?" the voice asked. "What's wrong?"

Giving the elder Holmes directions, John briefly described what happened, and Mycroft ended the call, telling the doctor to hold in tight for a few minutes until he could send his own emergency services.

John dropped the cell phone on the ground and paid the rest of his attention to Sherlock, whispering encouraging phrases to the unconscious man resting against him. The doctor pressed on and folded the next layer of cloth over the injury when he felt blood penetrate the initial coating.

As the minutes dragged on, the bleeding minimized, and John felt relief flood though his body. Sherlock's pulse still remained stable enough for the circumstances, breathing unhindered. Lips tightening in apprehension, John prayed to whomever would hear his pleas. To whichever strange twist of fate had let this man to fall back into his life again, he prayed wouldn't lose him now. Not after two days of reuniting with him. No, that would be far too cruel.

Hearing an ambulance in the distance, John took another deep breath. It was only a matter of moments now. The emergency vehicle parked just outside the opposite end of the alleyway and two men slid a gurney out of the back immediately and sped down to the scene, which was now visible with the truck's headlights. Rushing down the alleyway, they identified themselves, and loaded Sherlock up and into the ambulance. Instinctually, John grabbed his gun and Sherlock's cell phone before boarding himself. Surely Mycroft would somehow arrive to properly dispose of the scene in its entirety, but he needn't be leaving more than blood.

John leaned back against the side of the ambulance and watched as the paramedics set to work on Sherlock. The back of his head ached as he reclined, but he shrugged off his own injury. As of now, it felt just a mere bruise, hardly a concussion, but John knew symptoms could appear hours after the event itself. He could take care of a concussion himself; there was hardly anything to do about it.

_He should live, though…_John mused, examining the man laying before him. One of the detective's hands bobbed off the side of the cot, and John took it in his own. Though slightly clammy and chilled, the doctor took solace from the stabilizing heartbeat as one of the paramedics slowed the bleeding down further. _He's propped upright, the bleeding's slowing, probably some examinations at the hospital, and maybe a bit of surgery to fix up the lasts of it…There's a possibility of brain damage, but…No, calm down. He'll be just fine…Just calm down…But why? Why would he do something like that? I don't think he had ever shot anyone before…What were you doing? Was I just in your way? Would you have seen that guy sooner had I not followed you? Dammit, Sherlock. Why couldn't have you just told me?_

The ambulance pulled into the back of what seemed to be a small clinic, and the second paramedic ushered John out the back following Sherlock's stretcher. While the detective was wheeled inside, John was led to a small, quiet waiting room, where he saw Mycroft sitting separate from a large group of chatty people, bearing "It's a Boy!" balloons. Deep in thought, Mycroft hunched and rested on his hands, eyes completely closed.

Upon John's entrance, two young ladies from the larger party looked up and gasped at the sight. The waiting room's new attendee bore blood across his face, jumper, and hands. Looking up, Mycroft's eyes widened. Standing to meet John, Mycroft asked with concern laden in his voice, "How…how is he?"

"He'll live," John stated, not sure what else to say.

Sighing in relief, Mycroft assumed, "I take it you will want to discuss the contents of tonight's adventure in private, though I would like to assure you the matter has been taken care of." John nodded and Mycroft pulled his briefcase from under his seat. " I also have some papers of interest that concern you if you would care to read them in the meanwhile…That is after you've washed up and changed, of course. I've another shirt in the car…By the looks of it," the man remarked, eyeing a few patches of hair poking through the knitted garment, "you will be in need of it."

Agreeing, John found the nearest lavatory and examined himself in the mirror. In the heat of the situation, he hadn't even noticed the application of the copious amount of blood that had absorbed into his sweater, not to mention the marks across his own face and neck and the state of his hands. Once he removed his jumper, John thoroughly scrubbed the blood away, temporarily dying the sink red. Within a few minutes, he finished and dried himself off with a series of paper towels, which were dispensed slowly by the automatic machine. _Ha, I've never felt so much like a wayward in my life…_

Mycroft walked in with a simple button-up slung over his arm and offered it to the stout man. "I am sure it will be several sizes too large, but it will suffice better than your previous attire."

John accepted the shirt and asked as he donned it, "What, you're not going to ask why I was dressed as I was?"

"You were on your way to bed. Teeth brushed, your trousers…Did you honestly put your shoes through them? The likelihood of your wearing a simple cotton T-shirt to bed is rather high, and since my stupid little brother probably left without a word, you were in a hurry to catch up with him the moment you caught something amiss. When the injury itself occurred, you preferred to use your T-shirt for the sheer absorptive powers of the material without essentially infusing the fibers from that jumper of yours into his wound, which would inevitably lead to some sort of painful removal. What a conscientious doctor," Mycroft explained as if it were no difficult feat, slightly amused at how baggy his shirt was on John, picturing the look on Sherlock's face when he sees the results of his kind gesture. Sherlock never did like others touching his things.

"You two really are related…" John commented, having forgotten his own flurry no less than an hour ago.

Mycroft smirked. "Don't let Sherlock hear that; he's been denying it since he could speak."

"He does love you, you know," John input, remembering Sherlock's dismay in calling him.

Mycroft's mouth sloshed at the notion. "Anyway, you probably should have a gander at these. With as cooperative as he is, I doubt you will hear this any other way. Let's return to the waiting room…You might want to be sitting down," the elder Holmes suggested.

Together, they made their way out to the waiting room, and Mycroft opened his briefcase, handing John a stack handwritten pieces of paper. The doctor immediately recognized the handwriting as Sherlock's and began reading.

_I doubt this will ever be seen by any eyes other than my own (save those of you who remove this box intending to dispose of its contents when I've inevitably died, thus making my ability to pay for this very box nonexistent). If you are such a person, and you choose to read it, do with these contents as you please. This mostly serves as a reminder to myself as to what is happening has indeed occurred and there is no way to sidestep it and remain who I was prior to this. If you choose to publicize the contents of this message, my only request is you not divulge its source or my activities in specific to those I did this for in the first place. This is the last thing I want them to know, so it must remain a secret._

John shrugged past the warning, surely it wasn't him he was talking about. So this wasn't invading the other man's privacy, was it?

_My name is unimportant. That man is long dead. He is certainly buried in some boring, quiet cemetery, mourned over by few. To be precise, he killed himself because he was a fraud, because he couldn't do his job. He was a criminal._

"No, you weren't," John mouthed to himself.

_Of course, as I exist, I feel the need to defend this nameless person for…well, mostly self-maintenance of whatever shred of sanity may remain._

_This all started as a game. A stupid, childish game, littered with threats and bombs. Something that would automatically pique my interest; something that I could not resist. I was so blinded by the situation, I failed to notice the true source to the conspiracy._

_Let's just start in the beginning. That would be what is considered logical, I suppose._

_A man named Jim Moriarty came into my life, and through a series of stunts, he caught my attention. Though my silly brother probably regrets this now, what with his ninnying and doting drivel, he gave that man enough to essentially ruin my life…Which I don't blame him for in the slightest, my brother thought I could handle myself, and I thought I could as well. I, of course, predicted this would happen to begin with and set up safeguards._

_I knew he would leave me with a life or death situation. That it would come down to him killing those I would prefer be in my life or killing myself. He had to give me good reason to do so, however, such as having snipers trained on them while he, the only one who could call the hits off, killed himself. The only thing that would satiate their bloodlust would be watching as I took a leap off a hospital._

_I had one Ms. Molly Hooper and a couple of nurses (who were to be on-scene at that exact moment) on my side; however, she would sign my death certificate after a fake body tumbled out of a laundry truck in time. I would have my best friend watch as I fell to my demise, but he wouldn't see it all (seeing as I arranged for a cyclist to hit him). However, this would give my death legitimacy. I would have been gone just long enough to prove my good name._

John's eyes widened. _Sherlock thought of me as his best friend?_

_However, this clearly didn't happen, seeing as I am writing on crinkled paper and depositing it in a box in China to tell a whole whopping no one as to my true occupation._

_When I stood atop the roof to the hospital, tears welling up as I saw John's face, I knew I had to do this, for him in the least. It was the least I could do to repay how terrible I had been to him. I genuinely wished we could have had more time together, but I doubt that will ever happen now…There's no place left for me in that world. In any world._

Jumping, John's hands shook in place. _He did whatever this was…for me? Snipers? What on Earth…? He did want to come back. God, I don't like where this is headed... _Stealing a glance at Mycroft, who was reading another separate packet with a different type of paper, John asked, "But isn't this invading his privacy?" _He didn't want us to know…_

"Just read," Mycroft returned in a stern voice.

As much as is morals nagged at him, John's eyes drifted down towards the paper once more.

_I saw the laundry truck. I was confident the plan would work. I jumped. And I fell, but instead of being saved by the blighter, I was ignored. It was all a set-up. I hit the pavement, and I couldn't remember much past that. I don't know if I was taken captive while the fake body addressed (which would have left a hole – Molly. She would have tested the DNA out of sheer curiosity) or left me as is with some sort of modification to appear dead enough to a distraught woman expecting a phone call. My bet is on the melodramatic latter. If they had enough to poke a hole in part of my plan, they surely must have devastated that poor woman as well._

_Regardless, I woke up in this dreary basement that clearly was the home of an elderly woman (which had likely been in a state of limbo after her death), tied to a chair, my head throbbing. A man named Derek McCollum (a man whose brother I inevitably led to the death of) stood before me, saying that we were to finish our little game._

_That was the moment I knew Moriarty hadn't been my true enemy all along._

**End of Chapter 9**

**A/n: And there we have it! Woo, that one took quite a bit of research (oh thank goodness for cell phone internet!), so I hope it was certainly worth it. Anyhow, brace yourselves for the next chapters, they'll explain a lot. Funny facts of the day: despite my writing this story, I am still unable to spell "absence" and type "detective" correctly the first times around. Anywho, now that you've read, please review!...And after you've done that, go see the Hobbit! It is amazing and...causes me limitless flailing...'Till next time!**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/n: 'Allo everyone! I hope your holidays went well! Sorry for the wait (I lied about how long it'd take sorry :c), but here we are now. The tenth chapter of all things (seriously, could someone tell me when this happened?). I would like to thank ASHEY-MEOW and gingerholmes for reviewing. ^^ **

**Disclaimer: ...Definitely not mine. Again. For the tenth time!**

**Chapter 10**

_No, Moriarty hadn't been my true enemy at all. He was only the crazy man on the face of everything. This isn't to say that Moriarty didn't exist and wasn't a threat; he did and he was, but he was merely some guy they picked up for his particularities. They simply geared him right towards me, and so the battle began, enthralling me completely._

_I hadn't picked it up the first time, but in retrospect, I suppose that what he said was true. He threatened to "burn my heart out", which can hardly be accomplished by allowing me to kill myself in shame. He contradicted himself in that aspect. In threatening John on those numerous occasions, he had the correct idea, but by ruining my reputation? Not to the same caliber. I hardly care for what morons think of me; they often aren't worth the time I'm giving them. If he thought my reputation meant everything to me, he would have simply threatened that as opposed to his more direct course of action such as strapping a bomb to my only friend's chest._

_I should have realized it when it came down to my death. Dying in shame wouldn't have made my heart churn in dismay (though make my mind reel to reestablish my place at home - however, Moriarty did not know this, he thought the plan ended upon both of our deaths), had he set it up in such a way that my intellect would have failed in saving the lives of John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, I might have crumbled entirely. I would have been a wash out, but no, he allowed me to kill myself. The easy way out. _

_The goal was to make my life harder, to make me suffer. They let me fall for fun (as a durability test of sorts and part of the plan, I've been told), revived me to inform me that they had smuggled me out of London into some strange new place, and that no one I knew had the slightest inkling as to my being alive. Not only could I never see or contact anyone I had previously known, but that they would be shot on the spot if any transgression were to occur. On top of everything, I was to become their tool and "disable – kill, ruin, whatever" some people of the organisation's choosing. I couldn't die, I couldn't not complete the assignment, or my companions would meet a bitter end. I could, however, attempt to take down those parts of the organisation without other threat._

_I couldn't refuse, to say the least. There was no way I could let someone as brilliant as John, someone as loving as Mrs. Hudson, someone as…adequate as Lestrade die by dead man's poor decision. _

_They showed me pictures, which were secretly taken. He had to show me just how they felt about my passing. I can still remember them all clearly…John standing one in many in this crowd, using a nurse as support, starting at a pool of my blood. Another was him inside St. Bart's, eyes sunken, forehead creased, the deepest frown I had ever seen…He almost looked to be praying. The third? Crying. The fourth? A shot from my own funeral. Molly bawled, Mrs. Hudson cried silently, John was listless. Mycroft looked disappointed, holding mother for support...They missed me, such an awful person. He had to prove just how correct Mycroft was. If I hadn't cared for these people, I wouldn't have been the cause of any of this pain._

_Though, I suppose it was good I was such a horrid person to everyone...They should get over this and on with their lives. John will move on, maybe find himself a nice lady...That would be better for him...Better than I could ever be. Molly will wonder, but she'll only be able to find answers that should make her detest me more. Lestrade, the traitor, should be pleased to say the least. Don't heckle John too much. Mrs. Hudson, she's a strong woman...Mycroft will take care of Mummy, and that will be that. Whatever hole I left will be minuscule and easily surpassed. They will be fine, and I will do my part to keep it that way. _

_As much as I'm thankful for it, I wish I had left on a higher note...__ John...I am truly sorry. For everything. _Molly, I was dreadful. I would escalate your hopes just high enough to quash them with one foul swoop. Mrs. Hudson, I gave you hell. Mummy, I know you're mad at me, but I hope you don't worry over me too much. You still have Mycroft...I'm sorry for not forgiving you sooner. _I know you did what you did because you cared…I would have anything to even have a bug up my arse right now._

_But I suppose that would be easy, wouldn't it? In fact, McCollum wasn't even the mastermind. Just a bestial man with a vendetta that they taught some big words. As it currently stands, I have yet to discover the identity of the head of the organisation._

John swallowed against his tightening throat and felt as his mouth quivered into a deep-seated frown. How could such a certain, arrogant, self-absorbed man degrade to this thought that he wasn't important to anyone? To come to apologize? That his life didn't matter? He had seen the photos, he had that right in front of him and yet he... _He had to lie to himself, _John realized, smacking himself internally. _Sherlock had to lie...No wonder why he can't tell the truth. Can't even give himself a straight response. _Releasing a shuddering sigh, John returned his gaze to the paper, the remainder of which was blank. Shifting the first packet to the bottom of the pile, the doctor continued reading.

_The other night on the way to the motel through the back entrance, I saw a violin case propped up against rubbish bins. Without a second thought, I was on my knees on this wet cobblestone alleyway to open it, and inside I found a violin that had seen far better days. The bridge was missing (not to mention there was no bow in sight despite the presence of its counterpart), E and A severely frayed, the pegs were loose and wobbly, needed a good tightening, two fine tuners missing, but there wasn't a single scratch on its face, the spruce with a tight grain and auburn finish. Turning the instrument, I found that the neck was comprised of a vivid tiger maple. The corners of my mouth turned upward, giddy, not caring in the slightest whose it was before meeting me. It was mine now. _

_This was better than a good case back in the day...So long deprived, never such a sweeping reward. I had to have spent twenty minutes staring at the beaten beauty, fingering concertos, sonatas, compositions, and the occasional reel or jig, grinning like a lunatic as my trousers must have soaked the entirety of a nearby lake. Though the bottom of the case's exterior was still damp from its past encounter, the interior was dry enough for me to lay the poor instrument inside for the moment. There has to be an instrument shop in this droll city. Somewhere. I'll stake one out, and once I have enough saved, I'll have it repaired. _

John smiled. _He found a violin...at least he wasn't entirely alone this whole while._

___After every assignment, I get this stipend of sorts to live on for the month in addition to lodging. It's not the worst of jobs, I suppose...Rather similar to what I was doing in London only I have to research a suspect rather than determine his identity by deduction. Spying, surveillance, serving as the anonymous tipster. Quite entertaining at times, catching people with their pants down (bother literally and metaphorically) and destroying them in the eyes of the public or simply getting them arrested. Only now I'm essentially disposing of certain annoyances to this group, which inadvertently leads to their increase in power, but that just means I also have the task of uncovering their plans and adulterating them with my own motives. _

_______Though, most of these "assignments" are rather boring, no where near the prerequisite seven that would have previously evoked my desire to solve it. I get them from a mere disposable messenger or through a vague, cryptic message that doesn't take a moment to comprehend the meaning. The whole process is time-consuming, really, but this isn't nearly the most bored I've ever been. At least I have something pressing enough like keeping your hands busy. Doesn't do all that much for your mind, but it's barely passable as entertainment, pressing enough to keep me from slipping to old habits at least. _

___This isolation isn't utterly unbearable. I do have some sort of companionship: the banged-up beauty as well as these sheets of paper. And it's not as if I hadn't lived alone before. Yes, I'll just pretend I'm living like I did in the past. I've also stored away a summable amount and should be able to make the repairs needed within the week, maybe get a fitting, balance_d bow.

Checking the date scrawled on the upper right hand corner of the paper, John noted that this composition was written approximately four months after Sherlock's death. _This is only the beginning, _he thought, pressing forward to finish the stapled packet.

_I've just left her with the music shop owner. He says it will take a couple of days to complete though it is a relatively simple series of small fixes. It's rather strange now, there was something comforting about it being in the room with me, something to return to. Now it's just me and my thoughts, alone. This never ended well...I fidget, my mind wanders. I need something to do. Maybe I should just go out, try to busy myself in the meanwhile. Maybe figure out more about this organisation. Yes, this sounds like a plan._

A quick scratch served as a separating marker with the next day's date beside it, written as an afterthought.

_Day two. Still slightly nerve-wracking, which is relatively illogical, seeing as I personally scoped out this man's work for quality assurance. I'll return in the evening. _

_He's finished her repairs, and she was certainly the sight to see. Her strings were no longer languid against her neck, perfectly taut and in tune by the pristine pegs, which were now properly tightened. Two of the fine tuners were replaced, noticeably different from the originals, which had this bronzed tinge. Ready to continue his sale, the portly little man handed me a bow and I weighed it in my hand, the quality was fair for the price he requested. Upon the shopkeeper's gesture, I played out one of my unfinished compositions, improvising the discrepancies I had yet to work out. My mind went blank, ceasing to think of my worldly troubles. Everything was as it should be. _

_So he was lonely, _John thought before continuing to the next entry, which was written nearly a month after the last.

_I can't play her aloud at night like I used to (they will kick me out...though I would have to say that anything I play is far better than the...noises of those in the throws of intercourse), but I can sit on the edge of my bed and lightly strum in my lap. It's no where to the same level as losing oneself in song, but it's rather fun. Carefree, almost. There is just something about it that brings you this strange simple pleasure, toying with the various sounds a plucked instrument can produce. I should have done more of this ages ago..._

The doctor smiled weakly at the passage. At least Sherlock had something to bring him some sort of joy in this situation while John himself had no sort of reprieve. For a moment, John felt a pang of irritation. How could Sherlock possibly be content while he was left alone to suffer? Pushing those thoughts back, the doctor berated himself for the thought. Sherlock had his reasons, protecting those he held dear, but somehow, John couldn't quite get past the agitation that the other man served him. He had taken too much on his own shoulders, not asking for help. Why did Sherlock believe these people? They had to be bluffing, only to use him. _  
_

Sickened, the reality of the situation hit him. Sherlock had done everything in his power to keep John alive from risking to forsaking his own life. Self-preserving to selfless, the older man noted, wondering just what more he was put through.

_I couldn't have been out more than an hour...And they broke her, smashed her to bits, snapped the bow, crushed the rosin into a fine dust. Bastards, ruining anything that brings me even the slightest happiness. I've gathered her up now. She's resting before me, mangled beyond all repair. I'm not going to cry; they're not going to win. No, this won't get to me. _

_What do I do now? What do I do with her? I can't just...throw her away. I can't abandon her like that. I'll just pack her up for now and take a little nap. This won't get to me._

Left with an empty feeling, John turned the page to find a section printed in Sherlock's familiar scrawl on different paper.

_Looks like they solved my problem for me. Upon arriving in India, the case was missing._

The brevity of the Sherlock's final statement shocked the doctor, and he felt his heart plummet into his already-sinking stomach. _They're trying to break him...They had to have._

_Yesterday, I lost a week...It's absolutely maddening, that work lost, the inability to retrieve it (not to mention the hazy stagger back to my motel - thankfully, I remembered that in the least - to rid myself of the rubbish-smell...Little good that did, it's still in my nose). I've decided to record my daily transpires for moments such as these; it's not like those bastards would care. They monitor near everything anyway...I wouldn't put it past them to know what I wash first in the shower._

Blinking, John reread the small entry. "_Lost a week" as in his memory? If he's inscribing things now, I suppose that would be the case...At least he seems in higher spirits for now...He's prattling... _Turning the page, John saw another type of stationary, which was riddled with water damage, scrawled handwriting, and smeared ink. Fingering the waves in the hastily written page, the doctor swallowed before reading.

_Their threat…They killed her. Irene. _

_I was just walking back from completing an assignment and there she was, standing near a stall in this small market, eyeing some fruit. All I did was take a pause, and she stole a glance in my direction as if she felt my eyes on her. Grinning like a fool, she mouthed "Sherlock" and took a few steps towards me. I froze. I knew she shouldn't be near, but I did nothing to deny her advances._

_Within a meter, she repeated "Sherlock" in that sultry voice of hers and continued, "What? I don't suppose that you've something to do..."_

_Bang._

_I watched her fall to the ground. _

_More gunshots followed, screams filled the air, and I heard more bodies fall, including my own._

_Upon impact, I slunk over to Irene. She was dead. I just remember all the blood, she was still bleeding. Dead, and I felt the need to stop it somehow, to put back the pieces. I tried...and I couldn't. More bodies hit the ground, the sand starting to burn my skin. I could smell it searing, mingling with the blood and sweat. _

_Then silence._

_"Sherlock Holmes," a voice boomed clearly._

_Looking up, I saw two Arab men standing not two meters away. "This is your toll. Now leave with your life while we spare it," the other spoke._

_I could barely find my way to my feet, but I stood, stomach churning, ears ringing. With a glance, I counted twenty-eight. Twenty-eight people dead, mostly women and children. On my account. All of them. It's my fault._

_As I staggered away from the scene, I prayed they would shoot me in the back as I left._

_The shot never came._

_Oh God. Why? I...Saved her only to have her killed...And the others...Who had nothing to do with anything, their eyes glazed over, faces wrought in sheer terror, blood pooling around them. The sand could hardly take it in, lapping once it realized its moisture. Children were still holding their toys, mothers and the groceries, vendors hunkered behind their meager stalls, hardly resilient against bullets. Just a massacre. _

_I'm just going to lay down now...I will never go back to London. Ever._

Eyes widening, John set the passage down, stopping at a sloppily-drawn line that horizontally scored the page. Mycroft took notice of John's placement and slipped a newspaper clipping on top of the pile. The doctor eyed it to confirm his suspicions. It was true, the massacre was the same that was reported several years ago, twenty-eight dead in a small bazaar on the edge of the city. All gunned down. One foreign woman was cremated without clue as to her name or origin, having no documentation, her face ruined beyond repair. _Sherlock saved Irene...and Mycroft couldn't find out about it. But she died here with all these innocents... We never wanted him to find out, and he had to see it..._ The man felt a sinking feeling. All in his pining for Sherlock's return, he had caught glimpses of the news. Beside his belongings and left memories, Sherlock had this as a hidden connection to all those he knew, and no one had even noticed. If only Sherlock had left some sort of sign, if only a single person survived with the memory, if only. _  
_

Having served, John recalled the times he would come upon scenes such as that, hoping to help the few people that had somehow survived the worst. Own memories shuffling through his mind, the doctor grimaced. Sherlock had seen many strange murders, people killed before his very eyes, but a massacre? All because he merely showed up in the same place as someone he once knew. _I've never felt so useless...I couldn't help him. Calm down, I need to be strong for him now._ Turning his attention back to the paper, John took a deep breath and swallowed his unease before continuing._  
_

_I've been caught once in the last week. Careless. Too careless. Three days they kept me. Afterwards, they cast me aside, and I was saved by a woman with a young daughter. It seems I spent two days there under their care, and when I awoke, I just ran as fast I could manage with my crooked gait. They needn't get involved with me, I needn't repay their kindness with threats to their lives. _

_They've made it a point to show they are following me. They'll leave me alone for hours at a time, but then show back up. It's like they are telling me they can pursue me at will. How?_

John turned the page over to the next and his eyes were caught by a large splotch of blood. Eyes widening, he began reading the few words written on it.

_I thought that was just swelling. My wrist. They must have inserted something._

_One moment. Yes._

There were a few blank lines marred by blood.

_It's out. I'm not crazy. No. _

Placing the papers facing the seat of the chair beside him, the doctor took a moment to let the entirety of this information sink in. _His wrist...He did that to himself. They're driving him mad. _

John took the papers once more and flipped to the next sheet.

_The things I've done are inexcusable. And to think I used to call myself a consulting detective. Now to what have I been reduced? A hit man for a massive organized crime syndicate. Usually I ruin my target, but there are innocent people caught in this mess. Last week, there was an innocent man. A prosecutor, good at his job. I ruined him. Today I saw him begging on a street corner, carrying a limp child in his arms while his wife cried and huddled her other two children close. I couldn't offer more than silent apologies as I strode past them._

_I've killed a man out of desperation. I had three days to complete the assignment upon arrival time. All the information I needed, it was there...for any other country. My anonymous report hardly caught the interest of the local authorities, corrupt and incompetent. They kept calling, leaving messages, sending photos from around London with captions of how lovely the weather is. There was an hour left, nothing left to do. My options were narrowing, those messages raged on, I knew I had to. I had to kill this man, watch as he drew his last breath, add his blood to the vat that is my hands. _

_There's no winning, but I cannot stop. I can't be captured by police (and by the looks of them, they can respond to orders far faster than the authorities - even Mycroft - could), I can't communicate with anyone for an extended period of time, I can't even die (though I would like to deem this threat a bluff, I couldn't end my own life with the confidence they would not take their lives as well...). If I make the wrong move, they imprison me, isolate me further. I've learned to just allow them whatever they're going to do, and retreat to my mind if at all possible. Their goal is to make me wish for death when I clearly am not allowed it, to break me. Humiliation, injury, sorrow, isolation...No matter how miserable I am, I have to continue, and they know it. _

_This solitude. I thought I could handle it, taking it in stride even. Either I was spoiled by my newly-developed "emotions" for people, or the conditions surrounding this that are affecting me. Unlike after leaving the Holmes household, where I left of my own hell-bent volition, this is forced, this was unexpected. This was after I had made a friend, made sufferable acquaintances, of course..._

___I just want to go home. I want someone, please, John, Mycroft, Mummy, Molly, Mrs. Hudson...Lestrade. I'd take Anderson or Donovan even. Anyone. Please. I can't live like this anymore...I can't live with myself anymore. I need to be stopped, and I'm no where enough to stop myself._

___These aren't like the good days of now a year's passing where John would come blazing in at the nick of time like some sort of brazen superhero, or Lestrade and the police force, or even Mycroft in all his unholy power. These days are different; they are cumbersome, cruel. I have no reprieve, no back-up, no one home expecting me back for tea._

_I miss the flat. It's familiarity, I can still picture every little detail in perfect clarity. Sometimes when I'm drearily resting on a strange bed (or whatever other accommodations were otherwise provided for my use), I'll think I'm just laying on the couch taking a bit of a nap, and saunter up only to bash my shins into some absurdly-low shoddy wooden (if that) table. Or if it's late out, pitch black night. I'll just sit in the darkness and stare into the void, picturing where the other chairs were, where every article of the flat was placed. I'd just picture John coming though to hand me a cup of tea...and then it steers my thoughts._

_The flat's likely no longer the same. My things have surely been relocated to some forlorn place in Mycroft's possession where they'll sit and rot alongside me...John is probably already elsewhere, his things, too, are probably missing...It's probably barren, Mrs. Hudson would have gone back over with the repairs and new wallpaper. Perhaps someone else is already living there? It has been a year already...And John. Working a nice, stable job without my nuisance forcing him to quit...Nothing harming his love life, either. Going steady? A wedding, perhaps? Maybe a child on the way even? No, it's too soon for that...Not John._

_John. I miss John._

John sat and looked dumbly at the last line and read it over and over again, sincerely believing that his head injury was worse than he had previously anticipated and was beginning to affect his cognitive faculties. Swallowing back a sob, the doctor could feel his nose running, eyes watering. Mycroft set his own packet down and looked up, seeing nothing but the receptionist in the room, the remnants of the baby crowd long gone. "It hurts, doesn't it?" Mycroft asked in a somber tone.

The doctor nodded and continued to cry, damning himself for his uselessness.

**End of Chapter 10**

**A/n: Welp, I guess that ends the tenth chapter. I wanted to include more (this was the most awkward of my cacophony of awkward chapters), but it didn't quite appear (not to mention my dreadful initial means of organization!). ****Now that I actually don't have any time for writing, I will most likely be doing a lot more of it (as that's always how it seems to work for me)** Anyhow, please review! ^_^ Even if you don't have an account, you can still review on my story at least, so any and all feedback is sincerely appreciated (even if you must inform me of how awful I am)! 'Till next time!


	11. Chapter 11

**A/n: Hello again! This chapter begins with a few of our forgotten supporting characters that we all know and love (or hate)! There will be a whole bunch more (and for ginger: the source has been implied as a variety of things though no specifics have been revealed - yet), and I genuinely love you guys. My many thanks to gingerholmes, Teen Sherlockian, geekylittleme, Fionasaurus, To Thy High Requiem, and Elena, my lovely reviewers. I love knowing how you feel about scenes (or gosh, the tears! I'm glad to know I wasn't the only one who cried ^^;) or the story in general. Thank you again. ^^ Onto the story~**

**Disclaimer: ...Definitely not mine. Eyuup. Warning: this was written partially on flu/fever-induced delirium (so if something doesn't make sense/is misspelled, let me know ^^;). **

**Chapter 11**

"Oh look who it is," Anderson began, thoroughly eyeing his ex-lover as he stepped on the crime scene. Mouth twitching, he recalled their nights of passion and their explosive split. Now he was stuck with his stuffy wife, who refused to leave him out of sheer spite.

"Get your filthy eyes off of me, Anderson," Donovan snapped. "I was hoping Molly would come, but you'll have to do," she continued, regaining her composure. "Bag it, tag it, do whatever it is you actually do...The dead guy over here was an informant of ours. Set to testify a week from today. Dammit. We need to find this sick fuck."

Anderson glanced at the body, which was now bagged up, and set to focus on his own work. While Donovan kept a steady hand on the light, the slimy lab technician set to collect the samples. "Arterial splatter," he muttered to himself and drew his own flashlight. Directing the light as needed, he saw the signs of compressed spurts, but some were smeared as if something had been dragged across them. He expected the trail of blood to continue, but it did not. It was as if the shooter had vanished into thin air after receiving what should be a life-threatening injury. Setting back to the task at hand, he collected the needed samples.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Molly - _

_Run this as soon as possible._

_- Anderson _

The young woman rolled her eyes at the uncomfortable usage of her first name (though she alternately noted "Hooper" wasn't exactly befitting either) by a man she considered a bit of a creep. Either way, he was her coworker, and there wasn't much she had to do with him around save those few awkward hours of overlapping shifts. At least he didn't try to hit on her out of desperation's sake anymore after she drew the line clearly in quick-dry cement and punted him far along the other side.

Completing some of the backed-up DNA requests, Molly continued her work, humming lightly with the drone of the machines. There was something peaceful about working in this forensics lab, which was owned by a small company. She and Anderson were the only ones in charge of this specific lab, but there were several other forensic scientists throughout the building. Molly loved her job, a strong sense of justice overcoming her every time she matched DNA or bullet striations. Oftentimes, Sally would stop off at the lab, bearing food, to inform her of the outcome of her cases, which only served to fuel this sensation.

Within no time of Molly's career change, the two women became fast friends, eschewing the name 'Sherlock' in conversation to keep the peace. He was dead, John clearly did not believe the man he lived with was a fraud, and no one could ever find concrete evidence of the detective's supposed wrongdoing. The point was moot and best kept from everyday life.

Printing a profile to a match, Molly organised the papers in a folder for Sally to work with and wrote a brief note to stick in another case file that had yielded no such results. She grabbed the sample that Anderson had left on her desk and set to work.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Calmer than before, John took a hard sniff back and felt as the snot shot back into his otherwise-parched throat. He couldn't cry anymore despite the feeling that he was no where near done. Eyes blurring from tire and physical exhaustion, he tried to focus on the individual tiles that rested underneath his feet. Mycroft's phone chimed, and the doctor looked up to watch his companion read it.

Expression souring, Mycroft turned to John and said, "It seems I have to take my leave here. I've taken care of everything, and Anthea will be by with some things soon. Please call the number I set in your phone if there are any developments." Nodding in agreement, John felt as sleep overcame him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

John awoke to an aching back. Stretching, he found himself spread across four of the waiting room seats, a blanket covering him. Still tired, eyes puffy, he scanned the waiting room and saw the same receptionist clacking away at her computer, no one else in sight. John forced himself upright and kicked a duffel in the process. _This must be what Anthea left for me...__Mm, what time is it? 08:00...I guess I should wash up a bit and change..._ Folding the blanket, he placed it on top of the bag and headed for the washroom.

Placing the bag on top of the counter, John unzipped it and saw his gun perched on top of a plain white envelope. _I see...Anthea must have pulled it from my waistband when she tucked me in..._ After stealing a peak at the door, John unloaded the weapon and replaced it in the bag. He took the envelope, labelled "_For food and fare",_ and opened it, procuring £100 in crisp ten-pound notes. Sticking it along the side of the bag, he rummaged through the remainder of the contents and he found his mobile, the book from his nightstand, a stick of deodorant, two new toothbrushes, a new tube of toothpaste, a plain razor, his half-used bottle of shampoo, a comb, two jumpers (one of which was the over-sized one his mother had knitted for him in high school, thinking it would shrink), two packs of cotton undershirts and socks, enough pants to last a few days for the both of them, two pairs of trousers, four button-up shirts, and two pairs of shoes.

John looked at his tired complexion, and lightly chuckled about how sure he was he could use the bags under his eyes for storage. Washing his face, the doctor removed the over-sized button-up and folded it, tossing it in the bag. He would have to have it laundered and returned. After opening the pack of shirts and refreshing the state of his underarms, John put one on and threw his wrinkled white and red checkered dress shirt on top of it, carefully buttoning each installation. Donning his tan, well-fitting jumper, John pulled his collar from underneath and straightened it out on top. With the comb and some water, he pushed his hair back into place. There, now he didn't look like he had spent his sleeping on four hospital waiting room chairs after chasing down his best friend, who was shot in an unlikely location by a random shooter that had assailed them previously that very day, and spending hours reading what could endearingly called the man's diary only to end the night in tears. _Yup, Sherlock's definitely back..._

Pulling the bag along with him, John headed for one of the stalls for one of its more conventional uses and to change his lower garments and shoes. Upon exiting, he washed his hands and headed back into the waiting room. _Sherlock should be awake soon..._John thought as he glanced at the clock on the wall behind the receptionist.

The doctor settled down in his original chair, book in hand. Opening it, John removed his bookmark and stared at the text for five minutes before giving up, knowing that he was in no state of mine to calmly absorb a story. He stared at the clock, watching as the red seconds hand passed by, the room so quiet now that he could hear it ticking. Tapping his foot, John strummed along his knee with his fingers. There was nothing to do but wait in silence. Rising, John paced back and forth the lobby, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty room.

"Doctor Watson," the receptionist addressed. John stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the woman, waiting for an answer. "The doctors gave me the okay to send you down right now. He's not awake yet, but you can wait in the meanwhile. Give me your arm, if you would." Reaching over the desk with his left, he watched as she fixed a blue wristband on his wrist. The receptionist stood and walked around her desk. "Follow me," she commanded, plucking her identification card from her blouse. The soundproof door opened with a beep and a mechanical click, and the receptionist pressed inside, leading John down a hall to the fifth door on the left. Opening it, she ushered him inside and promptly left, the door closing behind her.

Walking toward the bed, John slid the chair from the wall to the side of the bed and fixated his gaze on Sherlock's colorless face. He sat and watched the other man's chest steadily rise and fall from under his stark white sheets. After five minutes of assimilating himself to Sherlock's balanced breathing, listening to the pulsing beep of the heart monitor, he was startled by their rapid increase. John slid back for a better view as Sherlock's eyes shot open in a panic. Jerking up from the bed with a desperate gasp, the detective scanned the room like a disoriented animal, ready to defend itself from harm.

Eyes focusing on John, Sherlock lunged forward in full attack mode, disconnecting his IV in the process. While the machine wailed, John braced himself and caught the brunt of Sherlock's weight, the man's cast clubbing him in the jaw. "Sherlock!" John yelled. Standing, he wrapped his arms around the volatile man and restrained him from causing any more damage to both himself and others. Sherlock thrashed for a few more seconds before calming down, overcome with a bout of dizziness. Wrapping his arms around the back of John's neck, he leaned on the stout man with the entirety of his weight. A bit much for the out-of-shape doctor to handle, John settled back into the chair. Sherlock came with him, nuzzling his face into the doctor's neck while clumsily straddling him. "Sherlock?" he asked, unsure of what to do, where exactly to place his hands. Within moments, the detective began crying, and John sighed, rubbing the man's back for comfort.

A nurse rushed in through the door and caught the scene, eyes widening. Slinking to the machine, she switched it off and apologized, "I, uh, if you can't, um, just call me when you're, he's, uh...settled. Just push that button there." After pointing, she sped from the room, doubting what she had just seen, too rattled to check twice.

Though embarrassed, John reassured the younger man, "It's alright, Sherlock, it's just the anesthesia wearing off. You're confused, it's fine. Let it all out, you'll feel better in fifteen minutes or so." The doctor could feel his shoulder and chest dampening through his thick jumper. Unsure of what to do, John examined Sherlock's curls and the bandage on his neck, thankful that it didn't bleed with all the excitement. As the detective cried and shook, his arms fell from the doctor's neck and slid down to his chest, nimble fingers grabbing at John's jumper, kneading the stitches.

Throat aching, Sherlock's sobs became choked, and he shuddered in the doctor's arms. "'Urts," the detective groaned into John's chest.

"That's because you took out your IV," John replied, eyeing the piece that Sherlock had disconnected. "Come on, up," he insisted, lifting his legs slightly in an attempt to shoo the younger man. Sherlock reluctantly rose to his feet, wobbling slightly, and John rose to meet him. "Now sit on the edge, and slide your way back onto the bed," John instructed, easing the younger man back onto his elevated bed. "Good." Sliding the rails up, the doctor smiled at his friend and ruffled his matted curls. "Now I'm going to get the nurse. Sit tight, alright?" Still inexplicably upset, Sherlock watched his friend exit the room with teary eyes.

John closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. Looking to his right, he saw the nurse, slinking against the wall. "I'm sorry about that...Got to love it when anesthesia wears off..." John began, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

The nurse turned to face him, totally shocked, face flushing. "I'm sorry...so he's a crier?" she asked.

"Well, no, he tried to deck me a minute beforehand..." John explained, still slightly flustered over the whole situation.

Laughing, she returned, "That doesn't happen too often. Usually it's nothing, but if not, it's at least one or the other."

"Tell me about it," John remarked, recalling all those times he'd been socked by someone whose life had just been saved by his effort. The doctor opened the door and held it open for the nurse, who promptly walked inside and reinserted Sherlock's IV while he was simmering down.

"Looks like we're all good. My name is Janet by the way. Make sure he gets some rest, Dr. Watson. His doctor should be in soon to check up on him," she concluded as she headed for the door.

Catching her from behind, John tapped her shoulder. "Wait, how does everyone know my name?"

Janet turned around and simply answered, "Beside the fact that you two are probably the most recognisable pair here in London, Mycroft Holmes came in and confirmed it."

John studied the woman, trying to determine just how much she could be trusted.

The woman rolled her eyes and explained, "Because this clinic is specifically designed for people of power. Anyone who foots the bill can be sure that they have the power to prevent us from working almost anywhere. We see mistresses, illegitimate children, embarrassing incidents, whatever you can imagine and more, and we're not allowed to utter a single word or we'll be ruined. Plus, there are only a handful of us at any given time. Rest assured, Sherlock Holmes' existence is safe with us."

Fears now null, John blurted, "Thank you...And we're not a couple!"

"I don't believe I mentioned a thing about it," Janet sung with a slight giggle as she left the room.

Turning to Sherlock, he asked, "What did she mean by that?"

Though his throat was sore, Sherlock rasped, "She thinks that because you mentioned it first...Therefore it must be on your mind."

John scoffed, rallying, "But you don't think...?"

"I don't."

"Good...So how are you feeling?" John asked nervously, recalling the journal entries he had read.

Sherlock scowled and continued, "What do you think? I need to pee. Help me up." _  
_

Already ahead of him, Sherlock grabbed for the pad of paper on the side of his nightstand. "Sherlock, you really should stay in place...don't they have something like a bed-" _Thwack!_ "Ow, what was that for?" Glaring at the older man, Sherlock kicked the blanket off of his legs, lowered one rail, and scooted to the edge of the bed, holding out his hand.

Rolling his eyes, John edged the drip over and and helped his friend off the bed, steering him towards the attached bathroom with the IV line in tow. "You're not standing, you know," the doctor lectured.

Sherlock nodded and made his way to the toilet, shooing John before disrobing and sitting. Awkwardly, John stood outside the closed door, waiting for his friend to finish. After a couple minute's passing, the doctor heard running water and the sound of wooden cabinets creaking open and closing.

Opening the door, John saw Sherlock pillaging the cabinet underneath the sink to no avail. The detective turned, using the sink counter as a pivot, and pulled on the top of his hospital gown, revealing smears of dried blood still on his chest. "It's gross."

"Go back to the bed and I'll find something for you to clean up with, alright?" Obliging, the detective returned with the assistance of his friend.

John turned the the usual suspects and pulled them open, only to find spare medical supplies. Plain tissue wouldn't suffice and standard-issue would streak in shreds. After searching the last cabinet, the doctor resolved he would have to talk to one of the nurses to assist him.

Upon opening the door, John heard two women giggling on the end of the corridor. "They're totally a couple!" a voice he recognised as Janet's exclaimed.

"Teddy said that Dr. Watson was holding his hand when they took him in," another voice remarked.

"How cute!" Janet cried. "So who'dya think is top?"

Too mortified to exit the room now, John stood in the doorway, bemused. "It has to be Sherlock! Watson is so expressive. It would be a waste really...And the height...I don't think it could be more mathematically perfect!" the other woman answered.

The whole thought horrifying, the doctor stared at the clean white wall opposing him, waiting for it to end. "No!" Janet objected, "It _has _to be the other way around! It just...ugh! Dr. Watson was in the military, right? And he was straight beforehand...His stocky build helps, too! And it's like he's always protected him! It has to be Watson!"

Shaking his head, John turned to steal a peek at his supposed lover, whose face was plastered with an amused smile.

The other nurse returned, "Huh, I guess that isn't so bad either...I can picture that lanky back of his arching..."

"Exactly!" Janet squealed and there was an extended silence.

"I wonder what actually happened in the meanwhile...We all thought he was dead."

"It's not our job to wonder...I guess it will be revealed in time, and we'll have to accept it as whatever sort of drivel they pawn it off as," Janet responded with a touch of disappointment in her voice. "Well, I've got to go deliver this pitcher to those two...Maybe I'll get to see something else..."

As a whine from the other nurse erupted in the hall, John closed the door as silently as he could and rushed for the chair, slightly tripping along the way. Just in time, the doctor sat and the door swung open. Janet walked inside as if she hadn't mentioned a thing and Sherlock's face switched to a neutral, indifferent expression. "Here ya are. Clear fluids for today it seems, and it may hurt a bit to swallow. Let me know if you need anything."

"Ah, towels? Gauze or anything? To clean up a bit," John requested.

Janet left the pitcher and a few plastic cups on the nightstand and opened the cupboard she expected to find some. "I guess someone forgot to refill them...I'll be right back." With a hurried step, she left the room.

Laughing, John remarked, "I can't believe that just happened."

Cup in hand, Sherlock poured himself some water and took a sip. "You wouldn't believe the fanfiction...And that was some venture for your chair..." Sherlock returned, chuckling to himself.

"There's what?" the doctor recoiled as the door swung open once again. Janet presented John with several sizes of gauze pads and refilled the cabinet.

"Alrighty, that does it, I guess." With a few parting words, the woman left the room once more, reminding them that the doctor should be in soon.

Starting for the restroom, John opened one of the pads and wet it with the faucet. After finding a place on the edge of Sherlock's bed, he untied the first knot of the man's gown and slid it down his chest. "There's fanfiction?" John asked, knowing he did not want to hear the answer.

"Of course there is. I don't know about recently...but there was quite a bit of it the last time I checked," Sherlock responded with a grin as John began washing away what dried blood marked his shoulder.

"Why would you check that sort of thing?"

Sherlock laughed and took another sip of water. "Because it's funny seeing how many there are...It's not like I read them."_  
_

"Good," he settled abruptly, not wanting to know more. Moving on to the man's torso, John's eyes widened as he cleared the grime that covered the man's scars. With a gulp, he continued nervously, trailing along each scar, calculating how long it has been since he received the mark and how it likely arrived.

Sherlock watched John's facial expressions contort, easy to read. "John?" No response, the doctor still enamored with the man's scars. Rolling his eyes, the detective breathed, "What, are you ready to profess your unyielding, fiery love for me?"

Startled, John looked up at Sherlock's face, looming above him. "What?"

"I thought that would get your attention. Don't concern yourself with those," Sherlock insisted, eyes pleading. Sighing, John finished wiping the blood from the remainder of the detective's body and tied the back of his gown once more, fingers lingering on a now-white scar that peaked from underneath the tie. Slightly uncomfortable, Sherlock called, "John?"

Snapping his hand back, John stepped down from the bed and walked into the washroom without a word. After tossing the used gauze in the small wastebasket, the doctor washed his hands, staring at his shaken expression in the mirror. He needed to get himself together before facing the younger man once more.

After splashing his face with water and drying it on his undershirt, John took one last hard look at his reflection. "John, how much did you read?" Sherlock questioned. Heart dropping, the doctor took one final deep breath and turned to face his friend.

"Enough," he answered simply. "I'm sorry..." Head cast down, the doctor couldn't look his counterpart in the eye, distancing himself with the span from the doorway to the bed.

Sherlock's expression fell and he returned, "Well, this saves explanation time. It's fine...What did you get out of it?"

"Your violin...Irene. What they did to you..." John began, certain he would be stepping on landmines any second now.

"Don't concern yourself with it," Sherlock advised, slipping under his thin blanket.

John made his way to his friend's bedside and sat back down in his chair, kicking his long-forgotten bag. "How could I not, Sherlock? Especially after that...You did it...For us. All of that pain you've endured...Tell me, Sherlock, how could I care for your well-being without 'concerning myself with it'?" John asked, slinking closer to the man's side from his place in the chair.

"I don't know," Sherlock croaked, avoiding eye contact.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor persisted, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Now facing John, the detective smiled weakly and muttered, "John, will you stay a little longer?" as his eyes drooped.

"Of course, we can talk more when we're home."

"Home...Hnn, that sounds nice." And without another word, Sherlock drifted into sleep.

**End of Chapter 11**

**A/n: Filler! Well, hopefully it made some of you smile just a little...before next chapter anyhow (ginger, I think this is what you've been waiting for). ****Anyhow, in other news: the flu is awful, avoid it if at all possible...Just like terrible ships in this series that I've realized I ship (ones that this website doesn't even acknowledge as an existing thing...). I really need help haha.** Though this may seem a bit idiotic, I would like to see if I can beat my most popular fanfic of all time. I would hope that this, something new in a better (but smaller) fandom (on a different account, mind you), would do better than some inane drivel I fussed with a whopping four years ago. Thanks to you guys, I've beaten followers twofold (against a completed story...but small victories)! I doubt this fic will ever see the 157 reviews (though shameless happiness would ensue), but I know we can beat the favs and hits. So thank you guys for being awesome :'D Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**A/n: Hello all! I would like to thank my lovely reviewers, Teen Sherlockian and Guest. ^^ This is the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for. One of many awful chapters. The chapter that gives this story its M rating. As a general state of advisory, I have to warn you all that this scene goes into subject matter such as rape. If that makes you terribly uncomfortable, I suggest you ctrl/command + f the line "I-I learned the rules, too," (though this gives you an absurdly short update, and for this, I am sorry).**

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 12 **

___A fan clicked in place overhead, creating a chilling draft for Sherlock, who was reduced to a mere pair of pants on the bed below. _Coarse fingers trailed along each of his vertebrae, and Sherlock shuddered. This wasn't right. He tried to pull himself up with his elbows, but the hand carefully pressed him back down to the bed. Dreary and deprived of sight, Sherlock wiggled his fingers only to find that his hands were tapped together, palms facing outward, connected to a bar on a metal headboard by a single piece of tape.  


_Jolting awake, the detective desperately thrashed, successfully flipping himself on his back long enough to blindly kick at his attacker. After landing a solid hit, Sherlock wrenched against the bed frame, trying to break the single piece of connector tape that kept him from his freedom. He had to get out; he had to free himself. As the tape snapped, Sherlock propelled himself off the bed, tearing at the tie that hindered his vision. _

_Before he could run, a strong forearm shoved him back, knocking the air out of him. Another swift push leveled him on the bed, and the man pushed his way on top of Sherlock, pressing a blade against his throat. Feeling the cold metal on his skin, Sherlock froze. The man forced Sherlock's arms up and smashed them into the headboard, causing a low ringing clang and a sharp pain coursing to his core. The detective felt as the gravity of his situation fell on him like a ton of bricks. If he didn't do anything, he would be raped._

Deduce, Sherlock, deduce, _he told himself, trying to force his mind away from the situation at hand, icy blade still poised to kill. _Private residence. Not likely his own, the bedding has been recently cleaned. _Sliding the blade down Sherlock's torso, the man a superficial slice in his skin, droplets of blood forming in procession. _The scent is flowery, a woman's home perhaps? Dusty. Metal bed frame, clicking fan, sheets still made. This is a guest room. _The man removed the knife entirely and placed it on the nightstand to the left. With the opportunity, Sherlock lunged forward in another attempt to free himself, but his attacker forced back on his windpipe. "Don't," the man's voice rasped, breath close enough to warm the detective's cheek. _Halitosis, smells bad, _he thought, wrinkling his nose in disgust._ _  
_

_Shivering, Sherlock felt as the man's hand closed in around his throat and squeezed, cutting off his air supply entirely. As the detective thrashed violently, he could fell the man's body slip between his legs, making kicking him more difficult than before. Though he couldn't see his surroundings, Sherlock's vision spotted amongst the darkness as he tried to gasp for the oxygen he desperately needed. Lightheaded, he could feel as pair of slimy lips met his own in a revolting kiss, hand withdrawing from his throat. _

_With rapid, shallow breaths, air filled Sherlock's lungs once more as the man made his way to the detective's collarbone, biting down hard and sucking, hands groping his chest. Head cloudy, Sherlock felt tears saturate his cloth blindfold. He couldn't move, every touch burned; it all felt so wrong. _Deduce, _he told himself, needing a distraction. _Ninety kilograms, digestion problems... _Without any sort of warning, the man grabbed Sherlock and lifted his hips and legs, using his own shoulders as a prop. __Hearing a pump and a squelch, Sherlock shuddered as he felt a hand slip into his pants, cold, wet fingers inserting themselves in a place most unwelcome. His mind went blank, only feeling the fingers moving inside him and himself sucking them in. Ashamed of himself, Sherlock could feel his body responding against his will, deep moans bubbling from his throat._

_The man withdrew for a moment and unzipped his trousers, fussing with his clothing and lubricant. Tensing, Sherlock felt as the man slid down his pants, revealing his shame to what could have been the world. Slipping Sherlock's listless, bruised arms around the back of his neck, he grabbed the back of Sherlock's thighs and situated himself. Unable to give himself the basal comfort of holding his own hands, Sherlock shook in the man's arms, sobs wracking his body. If he had to be degraded, why did it have to be like this, holding onto his rapist as if he were a lover? In one swift thrust, the man forced himself inside Sherlock, and the detective clenched, crying out in pain. The man groaned at the tight fit, and plunged forward until Sherlock lost all strength, pumping steadily. _

_Whimpering and sputtering, __his mouth sticky with mucus and saliva_, Sherlock listened as the man grunted centimeters from his face, his own hair pressing into the man's sweaty chest. Without consent from himself, Sherlock came, dirtying both himself and the other man. He just wanted to return home and cry, hearing John croon that everything will be alright. Heart aching, the detective longed for home. He would have killed to so much as hear a word. Deduction no longer able to help him, Sherlock shut his eyes as tightly as he could, leaving the anguish of his present situation to the backdrop for happier thoughts back at home. 

_Once his attacker finished, he withdrew and removed himself from the detective, scooting to the other size of the bed. He drew a cigarette and lit it, taking his time to enjoy it while Sherlock, the huddled mass beside him, quivered. Though his arms ached, Sherlock drew them into his chest and pulled his legs up in turn, trying to ignore the blood, semen, saliva, and cooling sweat that sullied his body. When the man finished his cigarette, he extinguished it on Sherlock's right shoulder blade, filling the room with the scent of singed flesh. Flinching slightly, the detective endured until it was out entirely and removed as the man stood. __Fixing his pants, the man dropped the cigarette butt in a nearby ash tray and threw a blanket on Sherlock not long before leaving._

_The detective curled into the blanket and cried. There was no one left for him now, no John to tell him that everything would be alright. No, he wouldn't be alright, the only one left able to offer him the slightest comfort his abuser. No one left to him, he just wanted to die. _

Help me, "John!"

Startled, the doctor woke up, book falling from his lap with a thud. "Sherlock?" John stood and saw the detective trembling, tears streaming down his face. When he grabbed hold of the younger man's shoulders to wake him up, Sherlock flinched and tensed, stiffening his limbs straightly. "Sherlock!" John called, louder this time, and the detective's eyes shot open.

Eyes darting, absolutely terrified of the world surrounding him, Sherlock eventually focused on John, and his eyes continued to water. He was safe now. "What's wrong?" John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed behind Sherlock, rubbing his back.

The detective turned into his friend's chest and clung onto his jumper. Wrapping his arms around the other man, John listened as he calmed down. "John," Sherlock began, gulping. He had to tell John, get it off his chest. "I...was raped."

Instinctively, the doctor loosened his hold and froze, trying to digest the words he just heard. Afraid that his only friend was disgusted with him, Sherlock's grip tightened on John's jumper as he felt the man's warm hands leave his back. When John felt a slight pinch on his chest from Sherlock, he came to his senses and pulled the younger man in closer. Searching his memory, he recalled Sherlock's medical records. His blood work came back clean. _Thank goodness.__  
_

Unsure of what to say, John simply squeezed as he was confronted with a torrent of sadness, sympathy, anger, and guilt. If he had been there for the other man, if he could have helped him, he probably wouldn't have seen so much hardship. "I'm sorry..." the doctor finally mustered.

Eyes widening at the realisation, Sherlock reassured with dead sincerity, "None of this is your fault in the slightest."

_If I were to be harmed on a case, you would blame yourself..._John mentally noted. Before he had the chance to consider what else to say, Sherlock choked back a sob and muttered, "The first was the worst."

"If you want to talk about it...I'll just listen, alright? I'll be right here for you," John comforted despite the fact that he didn't know if he was mentally prepared to hear it.

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock started, "After finishing an assignment, I decided to go after the local crime syndicate. As I was searching for proof that these people were involved in not only drug, but human trafficking for the purpose of the sex industry, I was ambushed. When I awoke," the detective's voice cracked. "I-I didn't know where I was, and I felt this worn, scarred hand c-caressing my back. It was drafty...I was left just to my pants and a blindfold. I immediately struggled...only to realize my wrists were taped together, palms facing outward so I couldn't grab things as well...It's kind of funny how such a small tweak to something can make you feel so out of control..." the detective grimaced and looked at his fingers, which only appeared to have minor cuts, a few scars visible as he looked for them.

"When I realised that there was only a single piece of tape holding me to the headboard, I kicked the man and pulled until it snapped. But when I tried to run, he pushed me back down throttled me..." Taking a pause, Sherlock regained what little composure he had, and continued with a shaky voice, "I thought I was going to die...Right as I was about to pass out, he...he k-kissed me...He smelled so bad, t-tasted worse...And then he moved on. My head was fuzzy.

"I tried to deduce...I thought logic could somehow distract me if not save me. But no matter how much I tried, I couldn't...I couldn't tune it out. And then he v-violated me." Sherlock shuddered and John gave him another squeeze, reassuring that he was still there while he himself tried not to cry."Af-after he fin-finished, he moved o-over to the o-other side and sm-smoked. Just up and lit one! Like w-what he did was n-nothing!" Sniffling, Sherlock sobbed, voice getting higher, "When he f-finished th-that, he p-put it out on my sh-shoulder. L-like _I_ was n-nothing!" John frowned, how could someone worth treasuring be degraded? Why? Why would someone do such a thing? "I-I w-wanted to g-go back h-home, b-but as I froze, h-he th-threw a bl-blanket on m-me. So...so cruel," the detective finished, crying, wrapping his own arms entirely around his only friend. Sickened, John tried to figure out how to convince Sherlock that he wasn't alone anymore.

"I-I learned the rules, too," Sherlock began, lowering his heavy limbs to the bed.

John's brows furrowed. "Rules?"

Clearing his throat, the detective continued, "The rules. Of this...game. Th-three days they were allowed to k-keep me. It's always been three. No matter what their p-purpose. Any more and they'd be punished, too. They couldn't kill me. I w-was an 'asset'."

_They used him, _John thought, lightly rubbing his companion's back.

"I understood. I-I knew. I knew they were using me. I knew that once I completed an 'assignment', they would use me...to get rid of the group I worked alongside. I was simply on loan; I had a 'terms of agreement and use' label attached on my very existence. They kept my doings a secret, enough so that groups were willing to use me to dispose of a few people. When and if they discovered my betrayal, they sometimes managed get their hold on me, trying to beat the information out of me. If it were taken too far or too long, _they _would step in and _kill_ everyone involved. But sometimes, _they _found the natural sadists, the ones who didn't want me for my..intended uses. _They allowed it, _if only to break me," Sherlock explained, grinding his teeth.

_Eradicate the competition, _the doctor concluded. "Sherlock," John breathed, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry."

"John...this isn't-"

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is, and it most certainly isn't yours any more than it is mine...I'm just sorry that this happened to you. All of it," John apologized. Feeling his eyes begin to water, John stifled the tears. He needn't be crying now. _He did all of this...for us. _

_You were worth it, John. _"I didn't realise my absence would have genuinely upset anyone...it's how I justified it when I realised my plan didn't come to fruition," Sherlock explained. "But you, Mummy...Mycroft even missed me."

"Of course we did...Why wouldn't we?"

"Because I was an irritating twat that often just did as he pleased," he returned bluntly.

John sighed, not entirely able to honestly deny that. "Even so, you were our friend, our family. How could we not love you?"

Chuckling, Sherlock muttered, "Loved, huh?"

"Of course, silly."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"This can't be right," Anderson muttered to himself, staring at Molly's computer screen. The DNA comparison had come back, claiming that the blood found on the sidewalk that night was the blood of Sherlock Holmes. "That's not possible...Blighter's dead."

Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he dialed Donovan, who answered almost immediately. "You won't believe whose blood returned on the Doyle case."

"This better be good, Anderson. Mafia boss good."

"Better. Sherlock Holmes," the lab technician returned with a loathsome smile.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"We're home," John announced as the two stepped out from the cab.

Squinting from the light, Sherlock smiled. The stone still smelled of rain while the sun shown brightly for the first time in what seemed like eternity. After spending days cooped up in a hospital room, the detective breathed in before following John up the stairs, silently waiting as the older man opened the door.

When he entered the flat, Sherlock bolted for the shower, mumbling something about the inadequacy of sponge baths. Lightly chuckling, John set off to the kitchen to make some tea to rid the chill from his bones.

As he set the water to boil, the doctor heard the shower blasting a few rooms down. Drawing two mugs from the cupboard, John placed them on the counter top and watched the kettle. _What would Sherlock have done...had I not met him? Had I not met him in the hospital...What would he have done with himself? He said he didn't intend to come back...Which means he never intended to leave that dangerous world? Oh God, what would he have done?_

Grabbing two tea bags, John unwrapped them and placed them in the mugs, disposing of the packaging in a nearby bin. Hands shaky, he leaned against the counter. _Would he have...killed himself? ...He has no left to fight. Or would he have kept...living like that? _When the water boiled, the doctor moved the kettle over to a pot holder and slunk down the sink cabinets to the floor. _Oh God, what would he have done?_

A knock sounded on the door as the bathroom door creaked open, Sherlock darting to his bedroom in nothing but a towel. Standing, John sauntered to the door, dazed by his own question. As he opened the door, he heard Molly's voice object, "You can't possibly bother him now!"

John's eyes fell between Lestrade and Donovan, who seemed as if they meant business, while Molly hung in the distance, silent with the sight of the doctor. "John Watson," Donovan began. "We're here for the arrest of Sherlock Holmes for the murder of James Doyle."

"What?" John stammered. _How did they found out? Mycroft..._

"This is all just a sick joke!" Molly cried. "I don't know how that result came up on my computer! It's not possible. I declared him myself!" Looking at John, she frowned. "And look what you've done to poor John, can't you just leave the man alone? He clearly doesn't know what you're talking about and you're only prying the matter more!"

Completely ignoring the woman's screams, Lestrade stepped inside the threshold and asked, "Mind if we come in?"

Before John could give his consent, the two officers stepped inside the flat and immediately glanced around the living space. "You are aware that Sherlock Holmes is not only alive and well, but was involved in a murder a few nights ago."

"I-" he stuttered.

"Just stop it!" Molly insisted, tugging on Donovan's sleeve. "You're taking this too far."

Opening the door, Sherlock revealed himself fully dressed to the crowd in the living room. "It's alright, Molly," he reassured. All the jaws in the room fell agape as he paraded towards the two officers. Smiling weakly at John, Sherlock turned to Lestrade and held his wrists out to the man.

"Why, Sherlock, why?" Molly murmured.

**End of Chapter 12**

**A/n: Where did Mycroft screw up? And I've just realized this sincerely might turn to romance. Any input, my readers? If there's an overwhelming desire for it to be so, I just might be swayed. Anyhow, now that you've read, please review! As a birthday present, perhaps? :3 'Till next time!**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/n: Sorry for the delay. Life sometimes... And this is where it gets crazy! Me balancing all of the characters while trying to include all of these strange subplots I've had in my head for a while now...I would like to thank all of my reviewers~ Kitiara88, gingerholmes, Teen Sherlockian, sherlockfan, Empathetic Psychopath, Anon, and cher bear (if you're still reading, can I just say those were the best? I died). Thanks to all of your commentary, I have decided to treat the ship to one such as friendship until a bonus extended chapter I complete at the end of the story so the romance is optional? **

**Disclaimer: **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 13 **

John watched in shock as Lestrade cuffed Sherlock. As he was about to speak up, Sherlock shook his head and shot him another weak smile. Stopping, John locked eyes with Molly, whose lip quivered, glaring daggers at the doctor. How long had they been hiding him?

Blankly staring after them, John stumbled over to the couch and plopped down on it, reflecting on what had just happened. Without thinking, the doctor procured his phone, dialing Mycroft._  
_

"News?" Mycroft's voice sounded on the other line.

"What have you done?...Or didn't do, rather," the doctor accused. Surely Mycroft was to blame for this.

"Pardon me?"

John sighed, irritated by the man's ignorance. "Sherlock. Lestrade came storming up here and arrested him for murder."

There was a pause before Mycroft returned, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." With a click, the line disconnected, and John set his phone on the coffee table, sound resounding through the empty flat.

"Dammit," the doctor swore, hitting the couch beside him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After sending his lawyer to the police station, Mycroft sat at his computer, trying to figure out just where he went wrong. Typing his brother's name into the police database, he was rewarded with petty crime charges of the man's youth but no DNA results, as he had intended. He had changed the bullets in the evidence room and made sure that Sherlock's DNA did not match anything on file. _What did I overlook?__  
_

_I send for an ambulance to pick those two up, but left the scene to the police because they had already been called. There were witnesses, from what I've gathered, that gave statements as to the gunshots they heard, but no one claimed to have seen anything. With a proper ambulance leaving the scene, even those who had seen it wouldn't mention a thing about it to the authorities, assuming that anyone in said ambulance could not exist without their prior knowledge; therefore, it wasn't a witness that caused this._

_The police had already been called, and I couldn't get a clean up crew there fast enough to dispose of the evidence before they got there. I had to let them take it, but I was certain my bases were more than covered. _

_The security camera footage was replaced with a less incriminating version, and I've just contacted the hospital to shift Sherlock's admittance date back a day if that bears a question. That family won't talk either, what with that illegitimate child's birth. With the bullet replaced, and Sherlock's DNA not in the system, what could it have been? It should have returned with no suggested matches, and I could have changed the results after the fact to something else entirely._

_But it must be the DNA. There's nothing else that seems to bring everything back to Sherlock per se. Who was on this scene? _With a quick search on his computer, he finally understood. _Donovan, of course, and she's clearly contracted her services with Anderson...and Miss Hooper, who was the only person who could possibly have his DNA in any sort of record. Of course. _

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Hey, freak, what'dya do to yourself? You're pale as death," Donovan asked, turning to the man in the back of her police car from her place in the passenger's seat.

Sherlock glared at the woman. "It's what happens when my brain cells attempt to flee for their safety," he recoiled only to be disappointed. _Rusty..._

"More like you got shot, didn't ya?"

Remaining silent, the detective averted his eyes, staring at his cuffed wrists, resting peaceably in his lap. With a deep breath, he assured himself that this was manageable; he wasn't _totally _out of control of the situation.

Sally rolled back to face the front of the car and announced, "I told you, Lestrade. We'd be standing in front of a body thanks to him...'cept this time it's not himself. Why couldn'tya have just stayed dead? That way Doyle'd be alive and we'd have that damned bastard down solid!"

_A witness, _Sherlock thought, swallowing hard, fiddling with his fingers. _Stayed dead? _

Lestrade glanced at the rear-view mirror at Sherlock and noted the blank look on his face. "What happened? Where were you?" he questioned, genuinely concerned for the sallow man sitting in his back seat.

"I'd rather not," Sherlock answered frankly, leaving the car in a strange silence save the active radio.

"Just doesn't want to incriminate himself, that's what," Donovan spat. "You know, Holmes, you've really done it this time. Molly's sitting there driving behind us. Look what you've done to her. She was perfectly well-adjusted without you and look what you've done. You came back and mucked the whole lot of improvement she's made! Not to mention killing that damn witness and all the other shit you've surely done with yourself. Fuck, in one shot you've ruined what I've been working on for months. You're just better off dead. Can't cause any trouble that way."

"Sally..." Lestrade chided as he saw a flash of sadness in the younger man's face.

"Don't Sally me!" she screamed. "It's all his fault. Everything's always been his fault, and now he's back here just to fuck up our lives. Seriously, the second he shows back up, he's at the center of all of this shit."

Sherlock watched her expressions from his position in the backseat from the rear view mirror and sighed, acknowledging the validity of her statement. The things he had been responsible for in the last week alone could land him in prison for life, not counting the entirety of the time he spent abroad, which could easily have had him executed several times over. _Not for their lack of trying, _the detective recalled grimly.

"Well, we're here," Lestrade announced as he pulled into the back of the station. "I'll do you this sort of courtesy, at least."

As the younger man was escorted through the back of the police station, all eyes in the surrounding area fell on him. Maintaining his composure, Sherlock walked as if he were treading on needles, gazes piercing into him. Though he wanted to survey the area for familiar faces, he couldn't bring himself to meet any of the officers' eyes. They were too good, too upstanding; he was ashamed, tainted, no longer worthy of the title "detective".

Not wanting to give the poor man who trudged beside him any more attention, Lestrade pulled Sherlock into an interrogation room and sat him in a chair, shooing Sally to the adjoining surveillance room. Sitting across from the pale man, Lestrade began, "Sherlock, what happened to you?"

Eyes downcast, Sherlock met him with silence.

"Look, I know that wound on your neck is a graze from a bullet. I need you to just tell me what happened between you and Doyle. What did you do on the fifteenth?" _  
_

Silence.

Temper wearing thin, Lestrade slammed his hand on the metal table, and Sherlock jumped in his seat. Frightened eyes piercing his own, the detective inspector rose as if a different angle would change the terrified look he saw on the once fearless man's face. "Damn it," he muttered, standing. "Just, I don't know. Sit tight."

Upon entering the observation room, Sally called, "The hell was that?"

"I don't know," he returned, watching the man in the interrogation room take deep breaths and steady his shaking hands. "He doesn't seem like he's all too healthy to start with..."

"Think he's a bit touched in the head? Well, more'n he used to be, anyhow."

After a tight knock, Molly opened the door and asked, "Do you want me to collect fingerprints and DNA?"

"If you don't mind..." Lestrade responded. "Maybe he'll say something to you, too."

Nodding, the young lab technician left the room only to enter the interrogation room, necessary equipment in hand. "Hello, Sherlock," she greeted with a deadpan expression, eyes still giving away her previous condition.

The detective looked up at the woman and smiled weakly. "Hello, Molly."

Pulling out a fingerprint card, a pen, and fingerprint grease, she took one hand in her own and helped him apply the proper amount before rolling it out on the card. "What happened, Sherlock? I thought you were dead...I sent in the report myself."

"I can only assume," Sherlock returned honestly as she pressed his right middle finger down on the card. The details as to how exactly he came to become what he was were still foggy in his mind.

Rolling his ring finger, she questioned, "Now what does that mean? You were there!"

"I suppose I was."

Finishing with the right hand, she wiped off the grease like she would for a child. "What's happened to you?"

"Nothing in particular."

Molly sighed and carefully pulled his cast left arm to the table. "I won't ask then," she maintained, unable to look at more than the man's damaged hands. Without another word, she finished collecting his prints and swabbed his cheek for DNA, cringing slightly as her eyes caught some of the faint yellow bruises resting against his prominent cheek bones. Packing up, Molly kept her eyes to the ground as she rose and left the room.

Groaning, Lestrade turned to Donovan and said, "Let's just take him to one of the holding cells and let the DNA and fingerprints do the rest...We'll talk to him again later."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Resting in the provided bed, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the sounds around him, occasionally catching his name tossed around the cell block. Keeping his existence a secret was hardly now a viable option. _At least I've brought some sort of ends to anyone who knew I was the one tearing their group apart. Half the time they didn't even have my name, let alone what I looked like. Some are rotting in some sort of prison with no means of contacting the outside, their group so far dissolved. The chances of repercussions for revenge's sake are minimal, compared to the accusations of murder I've acquired along the way. Mycroft should be able to cover those...__  
_

_But do I even deserve it? I'm a murderer. Maybe I should stay here, confess to everything, pay some sort of penance to those I've killed, those I've simply ruined. How do I absolve this guilt, rid myself of their faces? _

"Holmes," Lestrade's voice shook the younger man alert. "Your lawyer's here."

**End of Chapter 13**

**A/n: That's it! Filler chapter *groans*. Sorry for the wait for that of all things. Anyhow, if you need something short (and a bit sad) way to occupy your time, go check out my other fic, Letters for You. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/n: More delays, sorry *facedesk*. Life...and stuff. That and I've mostly been a bit concerned continuing this story. It's actually rather close to its conclusion, and now that I've completely planned everything, I've decided I will try and solely focus on this fic until I've concluded it (so rejoice?). There are only three more chapters after this (I intend - two if you don't want the romance) *happy dance though gecko knows it will rip a rift in her heart* Anyhow, feeling the end near, I would like to thank my wonderful reviewers and subscribers for continuing to support me. Without you guys, I don't know how much more I would have written. So thank you Empathetic Psychopath, Kitiara88, Not A Psychopath, Nicely Nails, cher bear (am I totally wrong, or are you a fan of Homestuck?), and Alyss-8D for brightening my days. :D Without (much) further ado~**

**Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. If you didn't catch that from last chapter (in which I forgot to include words after the word disclaimer). **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 14 **

After Lestrade escorted him to the interrogation room that he had left not an hour earlier, Sherlock sat down and watched as the detective inspector left the room, leaving him with a portly man with graying whiskers and round glasses that rested upon his dirty, porous, bulbous nose. The man's vest buttons strained to traverse the spherical field that was his gut, vertical stripes hardly aiding in "slimming" his frame. Examining the man's hands, Sherlock's eyes rested on the man's simple, gold wedding ring and smiled. The ring had hardly ever been removed and his fingernails (in the least) were trimmed and cleaned (though his finger beds had a classic smoker's yellow tinge), his clothes carefully ironed. At least he seemed faithful, loved. Mycroft always had a good choice in staff.

Rolling his free wrist, Sherlock stared at the man until he sat down across from him. "My name is Joshua Clement, hired by your brother, of course. I've been told to have you wait until the DNA results come back, at which point you are to be freed. It's all they have on you. Until that time, I am here to ensure that you do not say a word regarding the matter in any formal interviews," the lawyer explained, voice a soothing deep tone.

Sherlock nodded dumbly; he hadn't said much of anything regardless, and he wasn't planning to do so. There was nothing more to say. He just felt numb, unsure of what to do next. Unlike the last three years, Sherlock had someone to care for him, someone to help him, someone to save him. It was so drastically different, and now there was no purpose to dedicate his time, a part (though an unpleasant one) of his life was complete. "Good," Joshua began, arousing Sherlock from his daze. "You're already practicing."

Cracking a smile, Sherlock perked up to the sound of the door opening and the expression was immediately wiped from his face. As Lestrade made his way around the table, Mr. Clement moved and sat in the chair next to his client. The scent of smoke from his lawyer's clothing filled Sherlock's nose and he crinkled it in disgust, a wave of nausea overcoming him. It was one of the same brands he was more than familiar with.

Scars lining his back and chest burned with a renewed fervor, reminding their keeper of their presence. Shaking slightly, Sherlock looked up, trying to focus on the wrinkles on Lestrade's face, counting them in an attempt to identify new or worsening ones. Oh no, concern, Sherlock noted.

"Are you alright?" the detective inspector inquired, brows furrowing as he thought he saw Sherlock's color shift a shade lighter.

Sherlock nodded yes as he turned a glare at his lawyer. Why that brand? There were other brands, and he had to smoke that particular one. Someone whom he would have to sit next to civilly for hours to come.

Though unconvinced, Lestrade continued on with his questioning. For ten minutes, the detective inspector was unable to get so much as a peep out of the man he once considered something of a comrade. Sighing, he persisted, "What about Dr. Watson then, what does he have to do with this?"

Eyes widening, Sherlock snapped, "John's got nothing to do with any of this!" The heat from his scars spread to the rest of his body and his heart rate increased. John was totally innocent of everything; it was him they wanted.

"So you admit you were involved in the murder of James Doyle?" the detective pressed. He had to follow the lead, no matter how unpleasant it seemed.

Sherlock's eyes downcast to the bleak tile, cataloging the scuff marks. He couldn't honestly deny it. Though in self-defense, or at least in the favor of his best friend, he had, in fact, killed James Doyle. A wave of dizziness overcame him, and Joshua was quick to reach for the younger man's forehead, to which he received a flinch.

The scent wafting to his nose once more, Sherlock paled faster than before, now visibly ill. "My client is running a fever," Mr. Clement announced. "You can hardly consider him competent at this moment in time."

At the smell of the man's breath, so close to his face, Sherlock fell from his chair and pushed himself against the wall from his place on the floor. He had to escape it, that putrid odor. Eyes widening like a wild animal, the detective slid against the wall towards Lestrade, who was now up on his feet, unsure of how to react.

Mumbling something along the lines of "get away from me", Sherlock finally bumped into Lestrade's leg and he jumped forward, swinging to meet the detective inspector's gaze. Gulping, Greg realised that nothing but fear shook in the younger man's eyes. The thought was unnerving, something inexplicable frightening the wits out of a man he had considered so static.

"Sherlock," he crooned, crouching to the floor beside him. If this man was indeed involved in killing James Doyle, he clearly wasn't in his correct mental faculties. When Lestrade reached for the the younger man's forehead, Sherlock smacked his hand away and backed away further into the corner of the room.

Words barely now coherent, Sherlock watched in horror as the detective inspector drew nearer to him. It was happening again. "Sherlock, snap out of it!" With an outstretched hand, Greg reached for Sherlock's forehead, trying to gauge the man's temperature. Recoiling, Sherlock curled into a ball and whimpered before Lestrade could accomplish his goal.

"Please, no more," his voice cracked.

"No more what, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked deaf ears. When no reply came, the detective inspector leaned in on his knees and placed the back of his hand on Sherlock's exposed neck. He was burning up. Shrinking down even further into himself, Sherlock shuddered and whined.

"Please," he croaked.

Greg sighed, this was not going to be easy. "Sherlock, I need to get you over to the medical ward. Give me your hands or I'll have someone come in and sedate you..."

Neither seeming like a good option, Sherlock shook his head. Why couldn't he just sit here in the corner until he calmed down or passed out? Either would be better. Concerned by the heat radiating from the younger man, the bizarre flush that was creeping along his pale skin, Lestrade grabbed his shoulder in an attempt to sling him up to his feet. He looked like he was about to pass out any moment now.

Eyes widening at the sensation, Sherlock swung up with his cast left arm and caught the inspector along the side of his face, ramming hard into his right cheekbone. Dazed, the man churned his jaw, trying to work through the ache that was sent radiating throughout his face. Without further hesitation, Greg pulled himself up to his feet and yanked the rogue detective up by the collar of his shirt, completely agitated. Hitting him was just too far. Flailing, Sherlock gave a few more weak swats before Lestrade had him pinned against the wall with a harsh _thud._ Within a few seconds, the detective inspector had the man in cuffs and felt as he fell in dead weight, practically melting into the tile below him.

Before Sherlock could fall entirely, Lestrade pulled him up to his feet by his armpits and dropped him into the chair that Mr. Clement had pulled in a hurry, too shocked to properly react sooner. As he took a breather, Greg examined Sherlock, whose frightened eyes were darting around the room, his muscles spasming to wrench himself from his restraints, a crimson seeping through his bandaged neck. "Shit," he swore as he yoinked the bleeding man up to his feet and out of the interrogation room, dragging him along by the crook of his elbow.

Stumbling along, Sherlock could feel the eyes on him as black spots danced in his vision. When he felt his knees give out, he was returned with a harsh pull, and quickly regained his footing in turn. He would be dragged if he didn't manage to make it the entirety of the way. Swallowing, Sherlock felt in the pit of his stomach that this wasn't going to end well. If he was going to fight, now would be the time. Don't let them get you where they want you, he recalled.

As the younger man squirmed, Lestrade tightened his grip and continued pulling. The sooner he got him to the medical wing, the better, despite this probably being the most indelicate approach he could possibly manage.

Once they reached the medical ward, Lestrade relaxed his grip on Sherlock, who took the opportunity to wrench himself away and dart back into the hall. Two doctors and another officer, who was lining the wall of the hallway, caught him and forced him into a bed inside the ward itself, ignoring Sherlock's babbling pleas to not. After removing his cuffs, the three managed to strap Sherlock into leather straps along the bed frame and the detective writhed, eyes widening, trying to take in the sight of his captors.

When one caught his upper arm in a tourniquet, Sherlock flinched when he saw the needle. They would drug him, what was next was always a mystery until he awoke. While Sherlock struggled with the lasts of his strength, the doctor missed his vein while administering the sedative, nicking it. After a quick splurt and a tapped sterile pad, the doctor managed to successfully apply it in the man's hand instead. In a matter of seconds, a large dark bruise would leave its mark.

Too tired to fight it now, as the drug coursed through his veins, Sherlock fell into an unwanted slumber.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After the bruise on his cheek darkened from its initial red state, Lestrade gently prodded it with his fingers, cringing at the twinge. Plaster always was a wonderful weapon. Chuckling, the detective remembered his days in the school yard. The only reason to not land a hit on the kid with the broken someinsuch was not because he was injured and some sort of moral code your mother thought she had smacked into you, but because he could land you a good wallop with a swinging cast or a swiping crutch.

Plopping down into his comfortably-worn desk chair, Lestrade leaned back and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. He had already confirmed with Sherlock's lawyer that he wasn't bothering to press charges. How could he after seeing that terrified face, hearing those pitiful whines and whimpers? He felt like a monster for worsening the situation. If only he hadn't so much as touched him, just let him calm down. Maybe then he could have avoided the whole ordeal. Sherlock wasn't in his right mind, he was deluded, injured, afraid, and he had just made it worse.

Now, he realised, that when the young man awoke, he might come to frightened, tied to that bed in a drug-induced haze. And it was all his fault.

Though Lestrade knew that he had an initial cause to arrest Sherlock, to pluck him from the safety of his recovery, he couldn't help but feel guilty. There was enough circumstantial evidence paired with the partial certainty from DNA to conclude that Sherlock Holmes had killed James Doyle. Sherlock Holmes was a killer. A fragile, emotionally-unstable killer.

But what had happened? What caused the younger man to snap? Even after seeing Sherlock on a cocktail of narcotics, he had never been witness to behaviors such as these (though, he often found the young man during his crash). Sherlock had always been able to handle himself, retain this inexplicable composure, even when bothered. Now, he was broken. Completely broken. Was he even sane? Greg asked himself, leaning back carelessly in his chair.

Glancing at the clock, Lestrade realised he should have headed out hours ago and grumbled at his own inattentiveness. He could have been cursing his own conscience for existing in the comfort of his own flat. His own dark, dirty, lifeless flat, no one home to greet him. Nevermind that, he brushed aside, spinning in his chair to prop his feet on the desk. Here was always better.

Nodding off in the comfort of his chair, Lestrade slept until dawn as the rest of the station buzzed with activity around him. As he was starting to wake up, absorbing the noises reverberating throughout the station, he heard footsteps stop before his desk. For a moment, he tried to ignore it, but the presence remained. Lestrade opened his eyes and sat upright in his chair, yawning. Upon focusing his eyes, he saw Molly standing before him, clutching a file in her arms. "I knew you'd still be here," she started.

Brow furrowing, Lestrade asked, "What could be so important that you came all the way down here?"

"Sherlock," Molly returned, dropping the file on top of his desk. "The DNA we swabbed today didn't match the blood we found on the street. It's my fault, sir." As he flipped through the file, Lestrade sighed. What were the chances of this?

"So you're meaning to tell me that we find Sherlock Holmes...by mere chance? An error," the detective began, not believing the words he was speaking. This was more than a coincidence.

Nodding, she reclaimed the folder. "Do you have anything else to hold him?" Molly inquired.

Lestrade shook his head no, mumbling under his breath. This took the cake. Not only had he found someone he thought to be dead for years, but he also managed to muck everything up in the meanwhile. Though he wasn't entirely convinced, Greg swallowed back his guilt. Sherlock had surrendered himself to arrest, but by the looks of it, he was simply scared. Didn't want to get John involved with whatever it was he was being arrested for...What if he was protecting John? No, that wouldn't make sense. The blood wasn't Sherlock's. Or John's...Certainly no one they even had on file. Shaking the thought, Lestrade thanked Molly and sent her off. Now he was going to have to do something about the shaken consulting detective, who was still strapped to the bed in the medical bay.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Regaining consciousness, Sherlock moaned, his voice echoing throughout the room, returning until it eventually died out. Arms suspended above him, the detective realised he was wearing nothing but his boxers, goosebumps pricking up on his skin. After prying his eyes open, the young man stared into nothing but blackness. Not again, he breathed. Squirming, he could feel the stale air shift around him, arms protesting their numbness. He couldn't have been here long, but it was likely he would be. Long past the three day excursion, it seemed. Unless they came to retrieve him from his unplanned destination, he would be here a while._

_Anxiety overcoming him, Sherlock fought against the metal cuffs, try to loosen their bolts to the ceiling in the least. He had to free himself. He had to get out. What if he died here? Would they go after John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade? Mycroft? He had to protect them from his employers, and he couldn't do that confined here. Had he even completed his assignment? He couldn't remember. Either way, he couldn't take that chance, unable to complete the new assignment. _

_Without budging the chains, the detective conceded defeat, his body heavy with ache at the sudden movement. What was it they had done to him? Drugged him? He didn't feel injured. Stomach twisting knots, he felt bile rise to his throat and swallowed it down. Drugs, he concluded._

_Sherlock heard footsteps coming from an adjacent room and immediately stilled his face. He couldn't say anything. Not about his employer, his true identity, nothing. No matter what they did, he couldn't give in, couldn't cry out in pain. He would not let them win over him. _

_Light flooded into the room, straight into the detective's eyes, temporarily blinding him. The man before him was no more than a blackened silhouette, thick in frame. Before Sherlock's eyes could adjust to the light, the door slammed behind the man, and he was submerged in darkness once more. He could see slightly lighter spots floating in his line of vision as a match strike brought a dim, glowing light to the room once more. Lighting a candle on the wall, the man threw the match to the other end of the room, where it met its extinguishing on the cold stone floor. _

_Eyes focusing, Sherlock caught a sight of the man. Likely Caucasian (though difficult to tell from the dull orange glow encasing the room), hair and eye color completely indistinguishable, long nose, narrow eyes, long beard covering the majority of his face, hair unkempt, clothes a plain cotton with a simple pair of jeans. Turning his attention to the man's hands, the detective's eyes widened. A whip was coiled in his right hand. This was not going to be good._

_Unwinding the whip, the man cracked it once in Sherlock's direction and demanded, "Tell me exactly who you are working for and how I can get a hold of them."_

_Though tempted by the idea that this man would take out his employer, Sherlock knew he couldn't. No one could. The organisation was so large, so untouchable, that this man and whoever stood with him would never win. Yet, despite their immense power, he was commanded to never utter their names to a captor; lest they spread the information before they could come in and dispose of the problem. _

_This was unplanned, this was different. They would have to find him if they wanted him back. No matter how they abused him, they just wouldn't allow the poor detective to meet his end. They just wouldn't allow it. But these people? They just might kill him, which would be a relief, provided he could assume that the organisation wouldn't kill his friends and family out of sheer spite (which was an assertion he was unwilling to make)._

_"Tell me!" the man screamed, snapping the whip against Sherlock's bare chest._

_The rawhide slashed through his skin, causing a line of blood to ooze down his chest. With the wound searing, he stifled a gasp for air, the shock to his organs more than he had braced himself for. _

_"I see...Loyal, dog, aren't you? We'll see how you handle another!" the man announced with a maniacal laugh. Cracking the whip once more with intensified strength, he smiled as a second crack reverberated throughout the room. He had broken his victim's collarbone. _

_Gasping, Sherlock's face contorted in pain as more blood flooded down his chest, dampening the brim of his boxers. No matter how he tried to detach himself from the situation, he couldn't concentrate his focus elsewhere. Both gashes burning, he devised a half-truth. He had to try something. _

_Testing his voice, the detective started, "I-I don't know."_

_Snapping the whip to his side, the man exclaimed, "What do you mean you don't know?!" _

_When he placed an expression of sheer terror on his face, Sherlock was upset that it likely presented how he was feeling at this very moment in time. Though hitting things a little too close to reality, he explained through his agony, "I-I don't know...I don't know who...They k-killed. They killed a friend...A friend of mine. Said that..." Choking back a half-intended sob, Sherlock continued, "That I'd have to...that I'd have to w-work for them...Or they'd...they'd kill everyone else."_

_"USELESS!" the man roared. "What do you work by? Notes that arrive via carrier pigeon?! A text?! Tell me if I guess it!" Running off a litany of other options, the man growled when Sherlock shook his head no, tears sliding down his face. He was stuck, his mind clouding from the desanguination, and his sympathy ploy hadn't worked. "Turn around!" the man barked, readying his whip. _

_Whimpering slightly, Sherlock shifted around, tangling his chains in the process. Before he could fathom the blow's arrival, his back was ripped open by an unmerciful lunge of the whip. Each new addition rang a new number, one more than the last. "Three, four, five, six." Sherlock counted along with his captor internally, numbing himself to the trauma that he was being forced to endure. With each new blow, he felt the tears fly from his eyes, the jolt enough to fling them to the floor. "Seven, eight, nine, ten." The detective groaned, his body sagging underneath him, shoulders objecting to the weight they were holding. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen." __No one was saving him anymore. Not John, not Mycroft, not even his employer. _"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen." Praying that his employer lied, that John, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, would live upon his death, Sherlock drooped further to the ground, right shoulder slipping out of place. He couldn't tell if he had screamed. "Eighteen, nineteen, twenty." _His mind was foggy, counting was a difficult task to complete._

___Unsure if anymore blows came, Sherlock fell into unconsciousness._

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When Lestrade walked into the medical bay, he found Sherlock surrounded by several doctors and nurses, whines erupting from the younger man's throat. Pushing his way through to his bedside, Lestrade watched as Sherlock thrashed in his restraints, face contorting in pain. Greg grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shook him awake, calling his name the entire time, despite the insistent dissent of the medical staff surrounding him.

Sherlock's eyes shot open, darting back and forth to establish his location. As his eyes fell on Lestrade, the younger man calmed down, no longer fighting against his bonds. Expression softening, Sherlock stared up at the detective inspector, almost glad to see his face.

In a few swift motions, Greg released the consulting detective from his restraints, and Sherlock slowly sat up in his bed, rubbing his sore right wrist. "Is he clear to go home?" Lestrade asked.

Taken aback by the question, queried by the man who was now sporting a bruise thanks to his patient, the doctor returned, "His temperature has gone down, and we've stopped the bleeding...But we'd rather keep him a bit longer. See how he fares after breakfast in the least."

Smiling at Sherlock, Lestrade probed, "What if he was sent back with another doctor?" The consulting detective lit up. He would be going home, _with John?_

"We still don't recommend it..." the doctor answered, slightly saddened by Sherlock's expression fading into a neutral stare. "Quite yet," he amended. "Give it a few hours, and we will be willing to release him."

As the detective gleamed at the submission, all but Lestrade and a single nurse left his bedside for other work. Lestrade watched as both the nurse and Sherlock went through the motions. All seeming to check out, she asked him if he preferred porridge or a bran muffin, to which he replied the former.

Once the nurse was out of earshot, Sherlock muttered, "I'm sorry."

Unsure if he had heard the words properly, Lestrade stared at the man before him. "For what?"

"For that," Sherlock returned, pointing to the darkening bruise marking the man's cheekbone.

Laughing, Greg denied, "No...this is nothing...I shouldn't have pushed you...when you were like that."

Sherlock shook his head, not accepting that for a proper answer. The detective inspector had made the correct decision in incapacitating him, no matter the memories it brought. He was clearly posing a threat to those around him, and likely himself. Lucky Lestrade didn't even bother to press charges on him.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't know what the hell happened these last three years...It just doesn't seem all that good. I still don't completely believe that you had nothing to do with Doyle's death, but all we really had on you slid right past us. Just like it always used to. Just, get better, alright? Even if you did kill Doyle, it'd feel like sheer abuse to lock you up," Lestrade explained.

Sherlock nodded lamely and stared at the older man, holding his tongue. Mycroft seemed to have cleared his name, and he wouldn't be putting that to waste. Now would be a poor opportunity to confess to the entirety of his crimes. After all, he couldn't get Mycroft in any sort of trouble.

"One thing I never got though," Greg began. "Why did you say John had nothing to do with anything?"

Sighing, the younger man replied, "John's been taking care of me...I couldn't possibly get him involved with anything."

"What do you mean by anything?" Lestrade asked, glad that the detective was more willing to talk.

Gesturing to his neck and his cast arm, Sherlock returned sharply, "Anything that caused any of this."

Greg sighed and he scruffled Sherlock's locks. "I'll call Watson, and I'm sure he'll be here soon. We'll send him on up and you'll be on your way."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Shit," John muttered as he finally managed to stumble into the lobby of the police station. Reporters were storming the exterior of the building, calling his name, demanding that he give information regarding the return of Sherlock Holmes. He barely knew anything to tell, provided he even wanted to tell them in the first place. At least he would be able to return with Sherlock (though he shouldn't have been out of his care to begin with).

When the door closed behind him, the cacophony of voices simmered down to a dull roar, and John inhaled deeply as all eyes in the room were on him. Wordlessly, a young female officer escorted him to Lestrade's office and opened the door, ushering him inside before closing it. As John stepped in the room, Sherlock turned around in his chair and beamed at the older man.

Plopping down in the chair next to his friend, the doctor briefly smiled at him and turned his attention to Lestrade. No matter how crass he wanted to be with him, he knew the detective inspector was just doing his job; it was Mycroft who had dropped the ball, not him. He would have to settle with being nice. "How did you get that shiner?" John asked as he caught sight of the massive bruise formed along Lestrade's cheekbone.

After shooting Sherlock a telling glance, Greg returned, "Bit of an altercation..." Though he did not want to disclose the exact details of Sherlock's fit and his own overly-aggressive recoil, John could figure something had happened between the two, Sherlock's head bowing in guilt solidifying his suspicion. "Never mind it. Sherlock's already been signed out, you just have to escort him home and that will be that," Lestrade explained.

Looking at Sherlock, John recalled what had landed them there in the first place. Where there any more stray gunmen, aiming for the young man's life? "But what if there are more-"

"There are not, John," Sherlock interrupted with a serious glower. Here was not the place to ask such questions.

Confused, Lestrade interjected, "More what?"

"Nothing," Sherlock snapped abruptly. "Let's just go."

"Are you sure...what if they-"

"They won't. Let's go." Standing, the impatient detective grabbed his friend's arm and weakly pulled until the man decided to get up at his urging.

Farewells brief, the two shot for the door. Completely unsure if releasing Sherlock from custody was the correct approach, Lestrade stared after the two as the detective yanked John along by the sleeve. Greg leaned back in his chair and sighed. Those two clearly didn't have it easy, even now, and with the media maelstrom brewing, catching a break would be hard.

When the duo met the glass door at the front, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening. He hadn't pictured that many people to be there, waiting for him. As the camera flashes burst, John grabbed hold of Sherlock's good hand and led him through the door into the chaos. Their indelicate debut to the world.

**End of Chapter 14**

**A/n: Though I am relatively familiar with the intricacies of the American criminal justice system, I am extraordinarily unfamiliar with the English system (save a few things I googled lol). So...sorry if I'm terribly, horribly wrong? Anyhow, hope you enjoyed. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/n: Hello! Okay, another long chapter that I did not expect to write. In fact, I had to break this chapter up (so there are still three chapters left haha), and it's STILL this long. The next one should be a bit shorter. I hope. Chapters this long make me not want to proof them, but I still do. Sort of. Anyhow, I'd like to thank my lovely reviews. Thank you Kitiara88 for your continued support, Nicely Nails (I'm glad you like it ^^), and cher bear (it's a webcomic...you just remind us of a character or two haha...and thank you for the continued support). Now onto the chapter~**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. Never made profit..**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 15 **

Sighing, Mycroft internally slapped himself. How could he have gotten so distracted to have messed up the situation at such a rudimentary level? He hadn't even bothered to switch the blood samples, ignoring it with the thought that he had wiped the man's blood sample from the major data bases years prior. Careless, he chided himself. Mistakes like this always amplified in the worst possible ways. He had already sent his lawyer, and they would surely take DNA samples again...Now all he would have to do is switch the recorded results to something else entirely. Easy.

After some fiddling from his computer, he was fairly certain that they wouldn't be able to hold his younger brother much past learning that, provided Sherlock didn't say anything. Though his personal lawyer would be present to assist him, there was no certainty in knowing what Sherlock would do. From reading the gross entirety of the man's accounts of his activities, Mycroft knew how unstable he was. Frightened, confused, abused. Scared of capture. What if he didn't take too well to being confined? What if his guilt overcame him and he confessed right then and there?

This wasn't his sibling, his only brother. He would never vacillate, feel so intensely guilty for his previous actions. He would never doubt himself, never fear another person, never care this much for other people. He was forced to become all these things; he was weak. Grabbing the gold-colored letter opener on his desk, Mycroft apprehensively twirled the handle in his hand, fingers mindful of the blade. Something needed to busy his hands.

Sherlock wasn't the same, and he likely never would be. _Thud, _Mycroft plunged the blade into his ornate mahogany desk. How was his brother even to recover from that? _Thud. _From the torture? _Thud. _The psychological damage? _Thud. _From rape? _Thud. _From the grasp of memories and dead men? _Thunk, _he threw the instrument at the door, parallel to his desk.

Letter opener lodged firmly in the upper right hand quadrant of his door, Mycroft's mind fled back to reality. Being destructive never did anyone good (save the people he would have to pay to resolve the damage). He was better than that, more mature, he could handle his emotions (unlike his brother, who found a devilishly fond fancy of destructive decisions in times of boredom or stress). No matter how violently the situation boiled his blood, he wouldn't let himself degrade to his childish behavior.

Running his fingers across the puncture wounds in his innocent desk, Mycroft exhaled sharply, cross with himself. He was better than this, and he had to be, what with the media shitstorm bound to brew. Battle plans, he had to come up with something. Something to sell the media...something that they would believe. Something that would exonerate Sherlock from the accusing eyes of the public, something good. A hero, that's it, a detective. A good detective.

That's it. Sherlock had to prove Moriarty existed, that he was out to raze their criminal empire. Though the syndicate his brother had truly fought was larger, more powerful, Mycroft knew he could do it. He could use the information from the entries, and it was likely he could get more once Sherlock's name was cleared.

_The story. Yes, the story. Before "dying", Sherlock informed a select few of his plans, myself included of course. He would kill himself, discredit his whole reputation for one reason and one reason alone: he wanted to be properly off the radar. With news of his fraud, his followers dropped faster than gravity could fathom falling, and this would leave him open. He could make the moves he needed, go about undetected, free roaming to accomplish his goal. After all, who would expect a dead man to do the investigating? _

_Newly allotted this freedom, he used the time to determine the vastness of Moriarty's realm. And with the complete disbanding of several of the pockets of criminals, deaths of their leaders, imprisonment in some undercivilised land, I can pull specifics from Sherlock's reports to present to the police when they question the validity of this claim. There is no one beside ourselves to reveal the lapses in these lies...Single-handedly, he tore them apart, branch by branch, eradicating the roots entirely. A superb detective, one with a plan, managed to find his way back to London when all was said in done. _

_In the meanwhile, he was caught in a bit of an accident, if the public questions his appearance. Some sort of accident, any accident. Sherlock Holmes has a persona to live up to; he has to be strong, or at least appear to be. _

_And then there's John. Strategically, it would be better to say that he had always known, from the very beginning of the plan. No one would question it, there would be none of those hostile outcries. How could Sherlock just abandon John? They all would ask, they would crucify him with that very question. I could see it now, he wouldn't be able to answer, staring dead at a camera, eyes as wide as saucers, and I couldn't put him through that... He's already been selfless enough. He doesn't need to feel guilty over events that transpired because he had no control over the situation. It always were the simple rules that held you in firm until the end. _

_Sherlock spent these last three years saving his life, all the people he truly cared for (he never could just listen to my warnings, could he?) ...He doesn't need the ignorant masses pressing more upon him. But this would belittle everything John had endured in the last three years, he might even be asked why he let Sherlock go, why he allowed him to go alone into such danger (though saying he worked alongside him from here in London would be an easy enough fix). His depression would appear false...Unless, well, there will probably be theories claiming he was sad because he didn't get to see him... It must be done, regardless. __  
_

Plucking his cellular from the desk, Mycroft phoned John to explain the plan. After some brief argument from John's end, the two managed to seal the story. Sherlock Holmes had brought about the end to the entirety of an organisation that didn't particularly exist, and better yet, they both knew about it. Now all he had to do was feed the story to the ravenous media and relay the information to Sherlock. Uniformly, they could sell this better than a conniving girl scout with a deceptively innocent smile.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Mycroft?" Lestrade's voice sounded over the phone.

Smirking to himself, the elder Holmes replied, "Hello, Greg." He just had to return the casualness despite their not talking in a bit over two years. "To what do I owe this?"

"Look," the detective inspector breathed. "I don't know what kind of stunt you pulled to get him released from here, and don't think I don't know it was you. There is no way that this was just an accident."

"I haven't the slightest..." Mycroft lied, amused by Lestrade's insight.

"Stop with the act, Mycroft. You don't have to outright admit it...Just, I don't know. Make sure he's alright..."

Brows furrowing in annoyance, he retorted, "What makes you think something is wrong with him?"

Lestrade sighed over the phone. "Don't insult me, Mycroft. I may not be nearly as good as either of you, but even I could tell something was wrong. Not even mentioning those injuries, there was an incident...here at the station.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, thankful that whatever it was Sherlock had done hadn't complicated his release. That could have been irresolvably messy.

After taking a deep breath and praying that the man on the other end of the line wouldn't arrange for his death because of this, Lestrade answered, "We were sitting in the interrogation room. He was across from me, sitting with that lawyer of yours. Didn't look too good to start with...And when I asked about Watson, what he had to do with the whole thing, he flipped. Said John had nothing to do with it. I asked if he admitted killing Doyle, and your lawyer just felt Sherlock's forehead. Said he had a fever, couldn't be responsible for his statements. When he did that, your brother lost it. Flew right out of his seat and on the floor. Kept mumbling things like 'get away from me' and 'please, no more'. I tried to check his temperature right as he backed into the corner. He turns and smacks me good with that cast of his. Nice bruise, it left.

"Now, I'm not proud of this...But I yanked him up and cuffed him. After I slung him back into a chair, I saw his neck was bleeding...I just pulled him down the hall until we got to the medical wing. They had to sedate him, but he was fine...waking up that is. I asked why he defended John so much...and he said that John wasn't involved in anything that caused him all this injury...What was it, Mycroft?"

It took the man, who was often privy to respond to a national crisis without a second thought, several seconds to absorb the information. Now Lestrade knew something was completely amiss. Just perfect.

Noting the government worker's silence, Greg continued, "Look, I wouldn't say a word...I just want to make sure that he's taken care of...No one stable does that, fever or not. I can keep Sally quiet about it, though she's still deadset that he killed our witness. Hell, I'm not even too sure that he wasn't involved. But I can't arrest him like that, Mycroft. I just can't. That's why I didn't press charges. If we find anything else later...and if he had anything to do with it, I'm sure you wouldn't let us...but now..."

Thankful for his old friend's consideration, Mycroft smiled. For the first time in a long time, the man hadn't the slightest inkling as to what to say in turn.

"You're welcome," Lestrade returned, understanding the cause for the silence. "Now wouldn't it be awkward if you've just left the phone sitting there on your desk. It's been ages, it really has. Ever since he died, we've really had nothing to talk about...I never did say it, you know. I never apologised...properly. For doubting your brother. It was just so easy to assume...You know, never mind. I don't know what I was thinking. Just, make sure he's alright, alright?"

"Of course," the elder Holmes assured. There was no way he was leaving his brother to rot in his own personal hell. None of his actions were even his fault, and the sooner he stopped feeling guilty about them all, the better.

"Well, anyway, I should be off. Bye," Lestrade mumbled, the wear of the activity breaching his energy. Leaving no room for Mycroft to reply (assuming he even chose to), his line clicked off, and Mycroft reacted in turn.

A blip resounded from his desktop, and Mycroft looked up. He had a new email from Sherlock. Just in time. Clicking the bold email with a large attachment, he read the small blurb attached to it.

_Made it back home. Mrs. Hudson is here, too. Don't worry too much. John told me about that plan of yours. This probably will help some. Thanks. -SH _

Smiling slightly at the appreciation, Mycroft opened the massive link and read the first few lines. Smile evolving to a grin, Mycroft set to work. This was perfect, just what he needed.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He didn't care how silly he looked, how big a deal the media would make of this mere skin contact, how many more times he would have to fervently insist that he was not gay, but he would get Sherlock out of here. Pushing his way through the crowd of reporters while averting his eyes to the ground to avoid the rampant barrage of camera flashes, John strung Sherlock along, using the other man's desperate grip on his hand to his advantage.

At last, they reached the taxi, and John flung the door open, causing several reporters to jump back from the path it created. Sherlock pushed the older man into the cab before him and released his hand, using it to slam the door behind him. Within seconds, the driver looked back and began driving wordlessly to 221B Baker Street.

Groaning, Sherlock placed his head on the back of the passenger's headrest, completely evading a view of him from the window. This was a bit much, more than he was used to. This much attention. He'd always hated it, but it just felt even worse today. No one was supposed to know he was even alive. Yet they would continue to dog him, there was no escaping it, until he gave some sort of statement. Some sort of explanation, but he would leave that to Mycroft. Avoid it as long as he possibly could, maybe even use John and his old blog to his later advantage.

He wasn't ready for it, for the public to know. After all, he hadn't even settled his own affairs with the handful of people that already knew. It was overwhelming.

The doctor carefully watched his anxious friend. He knew he would have to be there for him, supporting him the whole way. Sliding his hand across the seat, he patted Sherlock's hand and gave him a smile. Everything would be alright. Though Sherlock didn't look up, John could see a smile creep along the other man's face.

Leaving his hand in place, John sighed. He had no clue what to do, how to fix any of this. Where was he even supposed to start? Was there anything else he even could do? Be nice and wait for him to come around, listen to him when he wants to talk? The idea mortified him. How much more could have happened to the poor detective? How much of it would he be able to sit through and listen to? Conflicting, he wanted to know the extent of Sherlock's suffering, but he wasn't entirely sure how much more he could bear. It was bad enough recalling the three years of his own depression, but thinking that his best friend, the reason for his downfall, was going through so much pain...Completely alone. To protect him...And everyone else he loved...The thought was sheer misery.

It broke his heart. Their roles were reversed; he was the one who was supposed to be protecting Sherlock, not the other way around. Somewhere it nagged him, that all of this was caused by his own failure. He couldn't protect Sherlock when he needed him the most. And yet Sherlock was still doing that same thing he had been, like it was ingrained into his existence in those three years, somehow fandangling itself in his wiring and kept him ticking.

When they were being shot at in the flat, the detective simply pinned John until the fire ceased. Sherlock was protecting his best and only friend. Even when he was arrested, Sherlock warned him away from getting involved, and like a simpleton, John was silenced by his friend's glaring will. The detective was going out of his way to take the brunt of the damage, going so far as to hide things from him, and it was infuriating. Sure, he could honestly say that he didn't want to say much of anything to anyone following his return from the war, but not saying a word regarding the gunman and his own intent to chase after him in the middle of the night was a bit much. And then there was the whole altercation with Lestrade. Would he ever hear exactly what transgressed between the two men? John could only respect the secrecy to a point that Sherlock had clearly exceeded with leaps and bounds. All in the name of protection.

But that wasn't right. Sherlock shouldn't have to keep living life that, running on empty, stretching his resources to their extremes to protect everyone. He didn't have to go through any of that anymore. Feeling guilty for things he had no other choice than to do, getting caught, abused physically and mentally, torn away from the shelter of his mind, raped, battered, beaten, left to die or fight an impossible foe, it was a wonder he was still alive. It was nothing short of a miracle he hadn't died, recounting medical records alone. By some shred of fate, even, they were brought together again.

The threat seems to be gone, no one would be hurt for the time being, and he could finally take a break. But as any returning soldier could tell you, that was hard. In his time, a calm environment was the last thing John felt he needed, and that was the very reason he fell into such an odd relationship with Sherlock to begin with. Their time together seemed to wash away all the nightmares, the limp, everything. He found so much in the younger man that his stress was practically expunged from his mind, clear as it was before he had even left for Afghanistan.

Though Sherlock's present situation seemed worse than his own, John prayed that his friend could return to some sort of normalcy, just as he had. Whether the detective liked it or not, it was his turn to protect Sherlock. To protect him from his most challenging adversary: himself.

After coming to a complete stop in front of Baker Street, the cabbie muttered, "'Ere", if the roar of the media wasn't enough to arouse their attentions. Giving Sherlock a good reassuring tap on the hand, John tossed the fare up and forced the door open, smacking an eager young reporter with the door on the way out. The doctor stepped out and waited for Sherlock to emerge as well. Yet again, it was time to make a mad dash for shelter from the continuous shutter clicking.

The two succeeded in making it to the safety of the stairwell that lead up to their flat, thankful that the media at least had the decency to not tread there (or for Mrs. Hudson's threats of calling the police on them for trespassing). Each ginning at the other, they both tromped up the steps to the flat.

As John pulled out the key to unlock the door, he heard talking and squealing from the flat. Pushing Sherlock back against the wall behind him, the doctor opened the door and quietly made his way inside, grabbing an umbrella at the entryway for some sort of weapon. The detective followed in suit behind his friend, skulking to avoid catching the attention of the intruders.

A familiar feminine voice echoed throughout the flat, and Sherlock plucked the umbrella from John and slid it back into the container at the front. "Mrs. Hudson," he whispered.

"What is she doing here?" John asked in a hushed tone. He didn't recall agreeing to this.

Sherlock closed the door around him and retorted, "By the smell of it? Pork chops. With that boyfriend and those grandchildren of his. And how am I supposed to know why they're here? I've been in jail the last few days! You must have agreed to something while I was gone."

"What do you mean – oh." John practically smacked himself. Why did he give assent to this in the first place? Sherlock had just returned (again), and after that little show that was still swarming outside his home, neither man was in the mood for people. Let alone children. Too concerned for Sherlock's well-being to pay proper attention, the doctor had not only agreed to have lunch with the elderly landlady, but had even gone so far as to say it would be 'lovely' if her boyfriend Eddy and his grandchildren, Martha and Martin (five and three, respectively), joined them.

"Gramma!" a young boy squeaked after catching the sight of the two men during his circuitous stroll about the flat. "Jawn's home!" Sherlock watched in horror as the boy ran towards them, curly blonde hair bouncing with him. Taking a step further behind the doctor, the detective saw as the child latched onto his friend's leg.

"He's just a boy, Sherlock," John chided in a low tone before giving the boy's head a good scruffle. "Martin, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Martin."

Stepping out from behind the doctor, Sherlock shot the child a forced smile. He never did like children; they were sticky, unpleasant, noisy, and always got into something troublesome. Just like he did. No need for reminders of one's own nature; they were always more than loathsome.

"You're Jawn's fwend!" the boy remarked, blue eyes shining with happiness. When he asked why John always seemed sad, he was always told that "John's friend" wouldn't be coming back and that's why. He missed his friend. Though Martin had tried to make John his friend, he couldn't quite make him happy. But now that his friend was back, John would be happy, Martin mused, pleased with the revelation.

Clad in a pale pink apron, Mrs. Hudson popped out from the kitchen with a wide grin. "Boys!" Rushing over, she wrapped her arms around Sherlock. "I'm glad you're alright, dear. It's been rather quiet since you left..."

After Sherlock awkwardly returned her embrace, she stepped back and took a good look at the two standing before her and beamed as Martin shifted towards her skirts. "Both my boys are home..." she relished. "Now come on, tidy up. Oh, you too, Martin! Lunch will be ready in a tick." Humming, the elderly woman returned to the kitchen, and the boy tromped along behind her. After all, he would need help getting his hands washed.

Turning to his friend, Sherlock asked, "John's friend?"

"Nevermind that," John disregarded, not wanting to disclose that he had been called out for his depression by a three-year-old.

"Oh come on, Jawwwnnn!" Sherlock snickered, amused by the small, grubby-handed child that was no longer in the room. There was supposed to be another child, he knew, but he didn't want to think about that. One kid was enough to mess up the natural order that the flat had incurred; hell, he was more than enough to do just that single-handedly.

Rolling his eyes, John returned, "Let's just go wash our hands."

"Fine, fine," Sherlock sighed and started for the bathroom with his no-fun friend not far behind.

As the two started down the hall, they were greeted by a man with a booming voice, "'Ello, John! Ah, this must be good ol' Sherlock Holmes!" Giving John a hearty smack to the back, the man's gray eyes crinkled, toothy smile showing. Eddy extended his hand and Sherlock shook it. "Well, I'm glad to hear that you're with the rest of us again. Scotland yard's been running 'round like chickens without a head with you gone 'n all." A girl peered from behind her grandfather, red bangs covering her inquiring eyes. "Oh come on, Martha, say hello!"

Stepping out, she greeted with a shaky voice, "Hello, John...Mr. Holmes." Nervously, she pushed her messy hair behind her ear and shifted in place. Martha never liked strangers, and this one was scary. His skin was translucently pale, veins clearly evident along the bit of his neckline, hands, and face. The man's hair was a mess, curls darker than night, bobbing up and down along his impossibly white skin. A white bandage disappeared along his neck, and he was gangly, each thin appendage folding in on itself as he made the slightest movement. She was certain with a good gust of wind, the man would go tumbling. The more she stared, the more scars she found caressing the exposed parts of his skin. There were bound to be more underneath those clothes that were too large for his frame.

"Now don't be rude, Martha," Eddy scolded, pulling his granddaughter towards the table. "Why don't you go sit down with your brother?"

The two took the opportunity to hit the washroom as Mrs. Hudson clinked a spoon on one of the serving dishes. It was time to eat, so you'd better hurry. After washing up to sufficiency, the men walked out to the kitchen to where their landlady handed them two full plates, comprised of sweet and sour pork chops, rice, and asparagus. The children busy at the table with their grandfather, Mrs. Hudson sat down with the boys of 221B in the living room.

"You're just skin and bones, Sherlock, make sure to eat up," the elderly woman advised.

After hospital food and the gruel he sustained himself with in the last three years, Sherlock was more than pleased to actually be able to eat something palatable. Though he wasn't particularly keen on eating much, the detective chose to shovel it in regardless, not wanting to upset his motherly landlady.

The conversation was sparse, a few pleasantries brought up as the children squirmed and squealed with their grandfather. Sighing, the older woman placed her plate on the table, and spoke, "Sherlock, why didn't you tell us?"

The detective looked down at his place and played with his food with his fork. "I couldn't," he returned solemnly, still toying with each piece of pork that he'd managed to cut for himself, arm cast or not.

Though unsatisfied with the answer, the look John sent her kept her from asking any more questions. The topic was still too sensitive to touch casually. "Well, dear, whatever it was, none of this nonsense that the news is spewing. I'll be just a hop away if you need me. I can cook, too. You're just a slip of nothing, watch it and we'll lose you in the floor cracks," she changed the subject, trying to cheer the mood. Turning to the doctor, she continued, "You, too, John. What with that convenience store food..."

"When did you meet him?" Sherlock asked. He didn't want to endure this anymore, the conversation too awkward for him to bear.

The woman's face fell into a tender smile. "Two years ago," she began. "I was in the library looking for something to read. I'd pull out something that looked interesting, read the back flap, and put it back where I'd found it. Nothing seemed all too terribly interesting. Eddy had been watching me dodder around from his spot at the desk and decided to leave his post to recommend me something. I checked the book out of course, read it, and came back the next week to talk to him about the ending. We had a good old time and he'd send me home with a new book. This continued for a few weeks until he asked me out on a proper date...And I guess it's been going along that way for the last few years...He used to be a professor, you know, of literature, of course."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. She finally found someone that she could honestly love. No more Mr. Hudson, swindling swine, all sorts of shifty sorts. After decades of searching for love, she seemed like she had finally gotten it right. The romantically hapless woman had finally gotten herself sorted. "And the kids?"

"Oh, they're sweethearts. They even call me their grandmother...but I don't quite know. I mean, at our age...But it's not like we haven't talked about it...Anyway, aren't they just darling? Martin seems to like you, and Martha, well, I'm sure she'll warm up to you eventually. She's terribly shy, poor girl," Mrs. Hudson explained.

"I'm sure," Sherlock returned without much sincerity. He didn't particularly want to spend more time with children, not right now in the least. It was strange, how the world had moved on, completely without his presence. The youngest was probably born not long before his "death", and now look at him. He could walk, talk, and was doing a pretty good job managing his own food. In the time he was dead, a whole child was raised from an infant into a rather capable small human. He was gone that long, the majority of a lifetime to some. Many didn't know him, he was a legend left in ruin. How pathetic.

Within the hour, everyone finished their conversation and food. Without missing a beat, Mrs. Hudson picked up each of the dishes and set off to the sink, her boyfriend and his granddaughter tagging along for drying and shelving helpers (despite John's insistence on assisting).

"Shewock," the boy pronounced, and the detective stifled a laugh. The child clearly was bad with his r's and l's; his motor skills were so underdeveloped it was almost adorable.

"Good enough," Sherlock answered, resituating himself on the couch next to John, who was still annoyed that he had been cast from his own kitchen.

Martin plopped down in between them and looked up at the detective with a broad grin. "You miss Jawn?" the boy questioned.

Blinking at the small child, Sherlock took a moment to digest the information. "Did I _what?"_

"Miss him," Martin groaned, pointing to the doctor. Why should he have to put all this effort into speaking properly when adults didn't even understand it half the time?

"Of course," Sherlock returned wide-eyed. Glancing between Martin and John, who was just as floored by the question, the detective continued, "Why wouldn't I?"

Swinging his feet, the boy continued, "Jawn missed you. He was sad." Sherlock bit his lip and looked at the older man. Even a child was capable of telling how out of sorts John was? And he wasn't even that old, his memories had to be recent. John was still in a rut over his death... "Why'd you go?"

Sherlock wasn't sure how to reply, so John took the initiative for him, "He had to. He didn't want to, but he had a job."

"Work?"

"Yes," the detective returned, thankful for the doctor saving him from a three-year-old's questions.

The toddler gave an exasperated sigh. Adult stuff...and work. Growing up didn't sound like fun at all. "You going?"

Sherlock grumbled slightly under his breath. Why exactly was he justifying himself to a child, again? "Again? No, I don't plan to..."

"Good, don't go. You'll make Jawn sad," the toddler said seriously.

"Martin, we're leaving soon!" Eddy called from the kitchen.

The child nodded and jumped off the couch. Turning to face the two grown men, he ordered, "Good. Don't go, and Jawn, fix his owies."

After farewells and a few hugs, John closed the door behind them and walked back into the living room, sitting across from Sherlock. "Did we just get ordered around by a three-year-old?"

"...I think he just gave us his blessing..." Sherlock muttered half-jokingly.

The doctor laughed, "You think?"

"Definitely," he snorted.

John watched his friend laughed. Something didn't seem quite right. He was trying to resume his regular life like nothing was different, and as a result, he wound up sillier, like he was trying too hard to be happier. It's like he was putting off his pain without sorting through it. They had to talk. The last thing that John wanted was to see his best friend spiral into depression, induced by being unable to treat life like he used to. No matter how much he wanted this to not be false happiness, John couldn't help but have his doubts.

"Sherlock," John started. He would have to start this conversation whether he wanted to or not.

As the detective swung around to face him, a knock resounded from the front door. Displeased by the poor timing, John murmured a weak "nevermind" and drew himself to his full height to answer it.

**End of Chapter 15**

**A/n: That was so terribly long. Oh my goodness was just about everything in that chapter not planned! Next one shouldn't be as long. Please let it be not this long! Anyhow, please review and such (reward me for two absurdly long chapters in a row? ^^;). 'Till next time!**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/n: Hello everyone! I'm glad to see you all here...This is my second to last *real* chapter, so I hope you enjoy. I would like to thank my two reviewers Nicely Nails and cher bear for their continued support. You guys really keep me going :)**

**Disclaimer: Definitely not mine...No profit, no nothing. **

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 16**

"Molly!" John greeted, partially out of surprise, partially to warn Sherlock of her presence. "What brings you here?"

The woman stepped inside as the doctor held the door open for her and took a cursory glimpsing tour around the flat, which had been recently cleaned. Making eye contact with Sherlock, she gave him a sweet smile. "I just want to talk to Sherlock a bit, nothing serious..."

Sherlock returned the expression and shot John a please-go-away-for-a-little-while glance, and the doctor immediately caught on. "I, uh, I'll be upstairs." After closing the door and grabbing his laptop, John trotted up the staircase, mentally preparing himself for what could be hours of online television.

Once John was tucked away in his room, Molly settled down in one of the armchairs and continued to smile. She wasn't quite sure how to address the topic.

"You want to know why I'm not dead," Sherlock asserted, starting the topic for her.

Nodding, the young woman continued, "I took the DNA myself, Sherlock...You were in my mortuary. And don't try and tell me that you've been messing with the samples all this time, and that that wasn't originally yours, and that the sample I had was incorrect. We both know it wasn't, Sherlock. We both know it."

The detective refrained from answering. It was entirely possible Molly was recording this entire conversation, and if she knew his particular markers as well as he thought she did, there was no way she wouldn't notice that someone had tampered with the evidence. "You know I know, don't you?" she asked. Letting out and exasperated sigh, she insisted, "Look, I know you had something to do with Doyle's death, but there's no way they can prove it. I don't know how you were involved, but whatever it was you did, I'm sure you had your reasons. I– I won't talk about that, alright? I'm not wearing a wire or anything, but I'm sure you can tell that." He couldn't, not entirely. She was wearing far too many articles of clothing. It was December, after all. "We won't talk about that...Because the Sherlock Holmes I know wouldn't do something without needing to."

"How can you be so sure, Molly?" Sherlock breathed, "that I'm the same man you knew. Three years it's been..." Hunching over onto his knees, using his good arm to brace himself, the detective met her eyes as he kneaded his fingers.

Pushing a stray hair from her face, Molly returned, "Because you're Sherlock Holmes...You're the most stubborn, frustrating, unchangeable, beautiful universal constant." Smacking her leg in an epiphany, she added, "You're the most logical person I know, and even if you had killed him, I'm sure it would have been for a good reason..."

"I think you need to revise your suppositions that you've created regarding my character," he commented, looking down at the floorboards. They were always horribly interesting when they needed to be.

"Oh stop that, Sherlock. We both know you're uncomfortable right now, but please talk to me, not at me," she begged, staring at him until he looked up. When his dull eyes met her own, she grinned, "Good, so, why are you not dead? Not that I'm complaining, of course, but I...I seriously thought you were, but I believed in you Sherlock. That you were somehow tricking me for my own good or something, for your own good...But I couldn't deny what was right in front of me..."

Sighing like it was too much trouble, Sherlock answered, "I honestly can't tell you how I lived...I might have been right there on your slab, to be honest. It's not impossible...They might have drugged me or something, removing me afterwards or something. I don't know anymore, it's too blurry to recall properly..." He hated it, this uncertainty, how nightmarish these recollections were, how unreal they were despite his constant ruminations.

Molly's expression softened. He wouldn't lie about something like this; Sherlock Holmes would never admit to not knowing. "Who are 'they'?"

"Bad people," Sherlock responded, amazed at his own understatement.

"Moriarty?"

"Something like that." The detective rubbed his temples. If only they were just Moriarty; Moriarty was child's play.

As she watched his expression shift into pain, Molly questioned, "What did they do to you?" _He didn't want to go, did he? There was a reason he didn't call...__  
_

"A bit too much," he chuckled, lifting is cast for an example. He knew if she saw more than what was already present, she would be mortified. Anyone would – friends, family, John probably already is – and he knew he'd probably have to spend the rest of his life in a general state of dress. It was confining, just to be able to mask his shame. His shame, he mused, he had never had that before. Even now, he was hiding a painless (albeit ugly) bruise from the IV from John.

"Why are you laughing?" she pressed, horrified by his response.

Sherlock laughed again. "What else do you do when you don't know what to feel?"

"Sherlock, I'm –"

Interrupting her, he insisted, "You don't have to. In fact, please don't..." Molly stared at him, unsure of how else to react. Sherlock examined her and mumbled, "What have you been doing in this while?"

"Sherlock Holmes and pleasantries," she giggled, "I never thought I'd ever see the day...Why don't you tell me what I've been doing instead." Sitting up properly, the lab tech gave the detective a proper view of her.

Eyes rolling down her frame, he deducted, "Sometime after my death, you decided to change careers, likely along with the privatisation of lab work for the police departments. Unluckily for you, the sole person you split the lab with happens to be Anderson, who seems to out of a relationship with Donovan, save a professional one...Whether he's still married or not, he's probably fairly unbearable at times...Which is precisely why you've been far more vocal than you used to be. Why else than to tell that sniveling prat to go fuck himself instead? Nicely done, if I may mention, and I'm sure your new friend Sally Donovan is rather appreciative of these snarks. You love this new job, wash your hands with invaluable frequency, and get to pick your own shift hours...yet, you're still losing sleep. Nails neat, those clothes are new– far bolder than you used to be–, makeup done, hair well-kept, and an insufficiently-covered hickey is resounding from your neck...I see you've found a lover."

Molly blushed and admitted, "You're right...as always. Moved to the lab a bit after you died, Sherlock...I couldn't bear to sit still in there after seeing you dead there in front of me. It reminded me too much of you. You have no idea...No idea whatsoever how much I missed you." Sherlock's face soured. He had seen more than enough in the pictures, but denying the fact that he was missed helped him live with himself all those years. Those defenses were now crumbling. "I knew you weren't a fake. I knew you had your plan, but it had somehow backfired on you. I couldn't understand how someone – anyone – could get one up on you. I felt like I had to somehow take your place...like my silly mortuary training could actually help solve crimes. And then I did. I picked myself and applied all over the place...I got got lucky enough to get hired after Anderson had chased away another lab partner...He's still married, by the way, his wife seems like she's staying just to torture him. Anyway, care to guess as to who it is?" she asked, smirking.

"Really? That's something!" Sherlock laughed. Anderson finally got something that was coming to him. Now to find out what had come to his little lab technician... After cataloging the rough size of the hickey, Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise when he found a match. Quirking his eyebrow, the detective wondered, doubting himself, "Really?" Though, somehow, it did make sense. He had been given plenty of hints from earlier.

Laughing, Molly continued cheerily, "Yup! I never really thought I'd wind up going down that road, but it's been a good couple of years..."

"You are certainly full of surprises, Miss Molly Hooper."

"I suppose that's an honor, coming from you," she remarked. "Got anything else?"

Examining her once more, Sherlock finished, "Did your cat die?" There was no sign of hair on her whatsoever, and the distinct cat-owner's smell failed to fill his nostrils.

"She didn't come back one night, which I suppose worked out in the end. Can't move in with someone who's allergic to them..." Molly explained. "I bet she found some other family...Someone who will be home more and give her all the attention she ever wanted. At least I hope she did. Never did get a call about her..."

The detective genuinely smiled. So the two were living together now (and he never did like that cat). This was a fruitful relationship, probably spurred by his own absence. At least something good came from his pain. Molly could now move on with her life thanks to his death, and she was probably far happier. If he had remained here in London, still occasionally visiting Molly in the mortuary for just long enough to keep her hopes up, she probably never would have even met this great love of hers.

It was so strange, what time does. How people move on with their lives, how they each respectively pair off even. So much could transpire in three years. Relationships can be formed, children can be born and raised, people could die, and longing could disappear or fester. Things progressed with or without him, and a part of him knew that no one particularly needed him anymore. He was just there as an accessory; it was only just nice to have him back.

Mrs. Hudson and Molly had done well for themselves, and with his little brother gone, Mycroft could finally expand his power to new realms of ridiculousness. In the long run, his absence was hardly even worth noting as people kept going on with their lives. Yet, despite it all, there were those who didn't trudge forward. John spent his years in depression, silently waiting for him. Though he felt selfish for it, Sherlock was thankful for his friend's loyalty. He wasn't sure just what he would have done had there been no place for him to return. And then there was his mother, who died not long after he did. He would have to go apologise to Mummy.

Molly watched as his expression spoiled; she had completely lost him to introverted thought. "Sherlock?" she prodded, and he snapped back up to face her. "Look, I don't know what's wrong. I can't help unless you tell me, but I won't force you to...You have John here with you, and I don't know how this all will be sorted, but I'm sure you two can manage. I'll always be a phone call away if you need, so don't be a stranger, alright?" He smiled at her. "After seeing you, I can't really be all that upset...Just, I don't know. I'm glad you're back, Sherlock." Standing, she walked over to her friend on the couch. As he sat up, she bent slightly to hug his tall frame. "I just wanted to pay a bit of a visit...so I guess this is bye for now?"

Separating, the young woman strode off for the door. Before leaving, she turned to him from the doorway and barked, "Oh, and don't you _dare _do that ever again. I really might kill you!"

Telling her to not worry, that he had no intentions of that, the two said their farewells and the woman left the flat. Sherlock sat in silence on the couch and sighed. He was so tired. Why was interacting with people so tiring? So overwhelming.

Grumbling he slunk back onto the couch into a reclined pose, crossing his right foot over the left. A good time for a nap, he thought to himself as his eyes closed.

Upon hearing the door close downstairs, John closed his laptop lid, thankful that the visit didn't last as long as he had believed it would. Out of curiosity, he had checked his blog (which he never brought himself to deleting) for the first time in years, and it was booming with new comments, requesting more information on his companion's dis and reappearance. Some were glad, recasting their initial view that Sherlock had not been a fake, and the doctor couldn't help but feel disgusted. Many were lying; they didn't want to be wrong, and he knew it. He remembered the posts, the horrible comments that they had left. How hurtful they felt; it didn't matter if they didn't believe him, but he felt utterly insulted when they couldn't believe in Sherlock. There were only a handful of people who could attest to Sherlock's genius, and half of them had turned against him. Nothing left but petty words to contradict a dying man's last words. Who could argue against that?

Glad to rid himself of reason to keep reading, John cast his laptop aside and walked downstairs. He was in no mood to deal with anyone besides his flatmate, and he knew his flatmate would be in similar accordance.

Reaching their flat's ground floor, the doctor saw Sherlock stretched out on the couch fast asleep. _It hasn't even been a minute since Molly left...I guess today's worn him out. He's been so tired lately...Never slept this much before. He needs it though...I'll just change his bandages when he wakes up. _

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

What do I do now? _Sherlock thought as he leaned back into the hospital bed. After escaping the captivity of the last of his controlling organisation, he had finished them off, telling a rival gang just where their headquarters were, where everything was stashed. It was a massacre, but he was finally free. Free to be his own person._

_But what did that even mean? Free do do what? Live? Live what kind of a life? One where all your friends have surely moved on past you, where you're left disgraced and too beaten to take a stand against it? Where no one will be glad to have you back...Where your absence has not only brought you pain, but bettered and extended their lives? Their lives, that you saved by running, by dying, by losing every ounce of dignity you had left, by losing everything that you were._

_How could they appreciate it when he didn't want to tell them? When you didn't want them to feel guilty? To have pity for you? After all, why should they? You cared too much for them, all those people that probably thought you no better than some annoying little prat, blithering on and on about why you were so far superior than them. He knew he went too far, caring for those who wouldn't requite it. Yet, despite it all, he would do it again. _

_But no, not now. You can't go back now. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. They are better than what you are now, someone used to orchestrate such awful misdeeds. You were tainted with the lives of all those you killed, those you ruined. You are filthy beyond recognition, how could you return now? Fallen so far from what you once were._

_What was he even doing here now? There was no more threat to their lives, no more reason to live. Throughout all these years, you had nothing but memories, fantasies, of your friends. You dreamed that they would be happy, have lives, do so much more than when you were there. That they were successful, that your absence wasn't even worth noting in the grand scheme of their lives, let alone your presence had much of any influence. They didn't need you, probably didn't even want you. All you had was them, and they've had everything but you, leaving you with absolutely nothing._

Maybe I should just die, _Sherlock concluded, the thought frightening him. How could he have brought himself to such a resolution? But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. He had no identity, no one to care for him, nothing but guilt. He couldn't be like Mycroft, existing with no one; he had been too spoiled by camaraderie to be able to that, too far destroyed by it to realise that his life before everyone was directionless and lost. _

_There really was nothing left for him, the thought sunk in. He was alone and aimless, trying to find some new meaning would be desperate at best. But he was scared...How would he do it?_

_The door creaked open and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Not that doctor again, what with his bubbly irritating attitude...or even worse, the rude nurse. He would be scolded (again) for staying up, but what did it matter? How could he? He still was on high alert, nothing felt safe. How could he just rest like nothing else was wrong? Deciding to humor the man, Sherlock leaned back and partially closed his eyes._

_As the doctor stepped into the dimmed room, Sherlock noticed that the gait and build of this one was different. This one was shorter, thicker. When he came into view, the detective closed his eyes tightly. _John, _his mind's voice cried out. This had to be some sort of trick._

_"Sherlock?" John vocalised. A clipboard clattered to the ground, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. It was really true. _

Remain calm. He didn't miss you...save yourself the pain. _"John," he greeted, confirming the doctor's assertion. He didn't know what else to think. He wanted to cry, any previous thoughts flinging themselves out the window. Sherlock watched the doctor, utterly speechless, staring at him. How was he going to react? Was he going to be happy? Indifferent? Would he be mad? Before thinking, the detective moaned, "John, I'm sorry." He didn't know what he was sorry for; there was too much to consider. His leaving, his own actions, why he was no longer worthy to remain by his side, his own previous thoughts. He felt so guilty. _

_John looked at him for a while and snapped, "For what? For jumping off a building..." Each accusation sharply darted through him and Sherlock felt his face sour. John really was mad; he actually cared. John had missed him. Actually missed him. The detective felt blank, like all that he was just doing was so terribly silly._

_He needed reassurance, a recharging. How could he have thought of such a thing when there was a reason to continue? Why was he so stubborn to believe that no one cared. Glancing up at John, Sherlock noted he was trembling, how furious he was with him. Awkwardly, the detective wrapped his arms around the other man, badgering himself about how he shouldn't be doing this, how much better John would be without him. He wanted to cry. Even if John completely rejected him, neglected him, he could die happy, knowing that he had been missed by someone. He finally got to see John again. His John. _

_Returning the embrace, John settled his chin on top of Sherlock's matted locks. After chasing away the tears, he croaked, "Why Sherlock?"_

_The detective remained silent. How could he say such a thing? How could he be so selfish as to want to bring John down with him? John was strong, he had lived all these years without him (a feat Sherlock himself thought he could never manage if the roles reversed), and he had so much more to live for. How could he allow his only real friend to muck his hands up in his own twisted life?_

_Now aching from exacerbated injuries, the detective whimpered, and John released. Straightening himself out professionally, he went through the doctorly motions and Sherlock returned with his annoying patient routine. This part was easy; he didn't have to think about this._

_When John saw his scars, the man insisted that he returned with him, and for the first time in years, Sherlock felt loved. Though he couldn't avoid the thought of how wrong it was to return to life, that he should avoid having anything to do with the living's lives, he realised it couldn't have been anyone but John. He needed John; he was the only one who could help him piece the fragments that were his life. After the doctor left, shooting him one of those dazzling smiles, Sherlock felt like he could cry. Please, let him savor this time before he had to go. _

Sherlock awoke to tears in his eyes, wrapped in a blanket John had placed on top of him. Looking over with his hazy vision, he saw the doctor, curled in one of the chairs with his own covers, watching some offensively awful reality show. Sitting up, the detective was surprised as the last of his tears skidded past his lips. Something about him felt numb, like he had been putting something so important off for so long.

John looked up and immediately saw the tear streaks lining his friend's face. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?" he questioned, voice full of concern as he sat up properly, giving the detective his undivided attention.

Wiping at his eyes like a child with his sleeves, Sherlock returned, "No, a good one..."

"But you were crying?" John commented, not entirely convinced.

"I was happy, John."

"Oh," John breathed, unsure of what else to say.

Chuckling a bit at his friend, Sherlock continued, "There is a lot I need to say to you..."

"About what?"

John was the only one who could help him, put his mind at any ease. He had to know, and Sherlock had to tell someone more than a few sheets of paper. "About what I was doing these last three years."

**End of Chapter 16**

**A/n: And that's it! Sherlock finally is ready to reveal everything. I may or may not split up the contents of the next chapter depending on how long it is, but look forward to the ends of this story! Oh, and I didn't simply forget to add the other person aboard the Molly ship. After I finish this story and Letters for You, I intend on writing a Molly x ? fic, and for my own terrible amusement, anyone got any guesses as to the identity of her partner? ****Anyhow, now that you've read, please review (just because it's almost done doesn't mean you should wait until the end!) and make me happy. Throwing these large updates out takes some encouragement.** 'Till next time!


	17. Chapter 17

**A/n: Hello everyone! This should be my last proper chapter (save my derpy fluffy special)...I don't know how long it will be yet, but let's have a go, shall we? No matter how long it is, I intend on shoving the last bits of the main story here...Soo! On we go!**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine...For the seventeenth time! Just having a bit of fun here...Free to all who view, costing me no more than time...**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Chapter 17 **

John's eyes widened as Sherlock's serious gaze met his own. "Are you sure?" he inquired, clicking off the television, devoting his full attention to the detective, who was resettling himself into a more comfortable position on the couch.

Brow furrowing and mouth twitching in discomfort, Sherlock nodded. No matter how unpleasant this was going to be, he had to tell someone, someone who could help him, who wouldn't judge him for his crimes. The doctor was the only one who could help him, healing the nightmares that ate him alive, that left the detective with a raw shell of who he once was. Stomach churning in nervousness, Sherlock took a quick hitched breath and held it for a moment before releasing it with a shudder. "I-I don't know how long I can hold it in, John," the detective moaned.

"Hold what in?" John asked as he scooted to the edge of his seat.

Securely wrapping the blanket around himself tighter, the detective returned, "The truth."

"If you want...If you want to talk about it, then we can. You don't have to do this if you don't want to..." He didn't want to have to make feel so insecure just to satisfy his own curiosity.

Sherlock grimaced and pleaded, "Please, just don't...Don't hate me, John."

"Why would I do that?" John wondered, partially to himself. There was that incident where they fought upon his return, but the doctor didn't think that he could ever truly hate his friend. No matter what he had done, John knew it wasn't the detective's fault by any circumstance.

Sherlock sighed, mumbling, "I wouldn't want to associate with me..." _  
_

"Don't worry, Sherlock," the doctor reassured, shooting his friend one of his calming smiles. If hearing this story gave Sherlock some peace of mind, gave him some opportunity to forgive himself John was willing to sit through it, no matter how difficult it was.

Sighing once more, the detective breathed, "I guess I should start from the beginning...I was too caught up in the game. When Moriarty's challenge arose, I was biting at the bit to win." Sherlock looked up to make eye contact with his friend, eyes begging forgiveness. "I made this plan, this horrible plan. I set it all up, John. My death. I knew Moriarty was crazy, that he would go so far as to take his own life to put me in a tough situation. Either I jumped...or snipers would kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade." Biting his lip, Sherlock watched John's face contort in dismay, shifting part of the blame on himself. Sherlock shouldn't have had to make that choice alone. "It's not your fault...I was too careless. Even though I called Molly and told her to forge my death certificate, arranged for the cyclist to hit you during my fall, had a laundry truck prepared to catch me and switch me for a fake, hired the nurses to ensure a smooth transition, everything fell to pieces. I had intended to 'die', giving you my last words to discredit my declining reputation to ensure that I would fall out of public attention quickly. I knew Moriarty had associates. After all, the plan would hardly have worked as well with his body still up there on the rooftop...I figured within a few months maximum I could manage to do away with the lot and return normally.

"But that's precisely where it went wrong," Sherlock scoffed. "I was too predictable. My only saving grace, the truck driver, was killed not long before my anticipated jump and was replaced by an associate. I don't know precisely what happened once I jumped. I remember seeing you...The look on your face as you watched me fall...I'm so terribly sorry, John. I should never have put you through that." Tearing up, he continued, "I couldn't tell you...I needed to sell it...But I shouldn't have done that, John...I didn't realise...I didn't realise I'd upset you as much as I did. I figured you'd just...that you'd just hit me or something...for the inconvenience...and we'd continue life on like normal, John. When I got back, you would have hardly noticed. I wouldn't have been long. I just...I'm sorry."

John lightly shushed the detective and made his way over to the far corner of the couch. "It's alright..." he brought himself to say though he knew it wasn't. Sherlock had been careless, completely oblivious to the consideration of others, but the doctor couldn't help but forgive his friend. After all, everything the man had done was partially to save his own life.

"It's not alright, John," Sherlock snapped, pulling his legs underneath him. "I should have..I should have just told you what I was planning..."

Scooting slightly closer to the bundle that was his friend, John reassured, "That's all in the past now, and there's nothing we can do about it now. It will be alright, Sherlock. I forgive you. Don't let it bother you anymore..."

Nose running, eyes still refusing to allow his tears to spill, Sherlock denied, "But that wasn't part of the plan! No one was supposed to miss me!"

John was floored. "Is it that hard to believe that people actually care about you?"

Sherlock sat silent for a moment. Even to him, it sounded absurd. Of course people cared, no matter how annoying they thought he was. After all, he somehow liked Donovan no matter how pig-headed she could be. "It's how I lived with myself..." he realised. "It's how I lived with my choice..."

Grimacing, John returned, "Was it enough that you cared for us?" Sherlock paused for a moment, deliberating whether or not he could accept that as a reason. "Even though I wish that...That I don't know, that I could have helped you in any way. I-thank you, Sherlock. You saved us all."

"I'm not a hero," he refused, trying to clear his throat from the mucus that had built up.

"You're the next best thing to me," John grinned, giving his friend a careful pat on the back. Looking at the floorboards, Sherlock remained silent. The whole concept was too much for him. He was a criminal who cared too much about others. Breaking the silence, the doctor asked, "So, what happened after that? After you fell?"

Sherlock pulled his head up and stared at John with shattered eyes. "I don't...I don't quite know. I remember seeing the laundry truck just sitting there, no efforts to save me...But somehow, it being there gave me the confidence to jump. It's like they knew. I just...I don't know what they did. They just let me fall...I don't know how...They might have drugged me...I might have nearly died. I was probably there in Molly's morgue and they smuggled me away elsewhere. My head throbbed, everything was dizzy, my vision was blurry, absolutely everything hurt."

Remembering the misuse this organisation had ordained for Sherlock, John wondered, "But why...Why would they do this to you...if you were such a big asset to them?"

Sherlock's face contorted in resentment, and he bit his lip, mumbling an incoherent response.

"What?"

Sighing, he reiterated softly, "Because it was fun."

"Fun?" John sputtered. How could doing all that to him be...fun? How could they toy with the life of someone so brilliant and trivialise it into something for sport? The thought sickened him. What kind of human could do that to another for fun? Fists balling in his lap, John's hands shook. If there was anyone left for him, he would personally see to it that the sick fuck couldn't just use another person like that ever again.

Sherlock pulled a hand from his enclosure and touched one of John's, which immediately released its grip on itself at the cold touch. "There's nothing you can do, John," Sherlock spoke as if it didn't even involve him.

"What do you mean there's nothing I can do?" John spat. He was more than furious. "How dare they _use _you like that?!"

Cringing at the word, Sherlock bit bottom lip and ran his teeth around the small bleeding pocket he had created. "You can't do anything...Because I killed them myself." Withdrawing his hand from John's, he examined it a moment. It was saturated with the blood of dozens of people.

"You...?" John gulped. He knew Sherlock had killed people, what from reading and his own experience, but it still didn't seem like it fit. Even though Sherlock had killed someone in his presence, he couldn't quite accept it. In his mind, Sherlock was still innocent, sexually inexperienced, and though he denied his own purity, it radiated from him. Now Sherlock was damaged in all the wrong ways, and John didn't know how he could fix it.

Sherlock released a deep moan. This was precisely what he had wanted to avoid: John hating him for his actions. Great, now he had burned another bridge. Just when he was looking forward to staying in the flat again. Where was he to go now? Mycroft's?

Catching the look on Sherlock's face, John insisted, "No, it's not that. I just don't know what to think..."

"Now that I've changed so much?" Sherlock finished.

John nodded and continued, "Not that I want you to leave or anything...That I'll like you any less, but...it's just odd. I'm trying to understand." Sherlock agreed, seeming to understand where the older man was coming from, answer satisfactory enough. "Um, so back to the story?"

"Yes, right." Settling himself back into the couch, Sherlock faced John before starting, "I woke up in some old lady's basement, tied to a chair of all things. My head and body still ached. I felt so terribly groggy, when I could identify the man before me. His name was Derek McCollum, and I somehow inadvertently led to his brother's prison death after getting him arrested some years before meeting you...that man always did hold a grudge. He said that it was time to continue the game. After some badinage, he pulled a bunch of pictures from his coat pocket. They were of everyone back home...You after I fell, staring at a pool of blood...My blood. Of you crying alone. Of my funeral...My grave. I remembered how I had gotten there...what I had done. I knew you wouldn't be coming for me. You couldn't possibly. Mycroft couldn't even know. It was just me, stuck in a cellar.

"I was scared. I knew somehow Moriarty and McCollum were in cahoots, but I didn't quite know how. I didn't know what would happen to me. Everything was hazy until it hit me. Moriarty gave me hints along along. He wanted to burn my heart out, and when I mentioned that to McCollum, he was pleased to announce he could relay the rules of the game." John frowned; they were completely toying with him. Though he knew they were gone, the doctor wanted so desperately to teach them that no one messed with Sherlock, with anyone really. Not like that.

"What was worse, I then knew they had used Moriarty for his insanity, using such a brilliant man...They knew I would follow him until I got caught up in a more twisted game, from which I could barely escape...McCollum told me that I had to disable, kill, or ruin someone of their choice monthly. If I were to not comply, fail the task, or simply die before the deadline, someone back here would kill one, or all, of you. I couldn't contact anyone...They would know and death would meet someone as well. However, I could fight against my employers. That request was almost encouraged. It was all part of the game. I later learned that my 'employers' were hardly even part of the organisation that was undoubtedly ruining my life. They lent me out like a library book, just to eradicate the competition.

"It sickened me, once I found out. Not only was I destroying lives of all these people, but I was giving this group a larger power, greater control over a plethora of countries. It bothered me...that I had to live off of them and their monthly stipend in whichever country that had shipped me off to," Sherlock explained, detaching himself emotionally from the memories.

"I was defiant. I barely completed the task and led to the arrest of entire gangs and syndicates. I was 'no fun', treating this new job just like I had back at home. They had to...they had to break me. As you know, I found that violin, just abandoned near my lodgings. Within days, they had her broken. They had shattered the only way to quiet my thoughts...Then, I started losing entire days, weeks even...Due to the organisation's capture. When I remembered something, that's how I found them...it's how I figured out just who they were. I was getting too cocky. I knew it was being run by a man named Eric Fletcher, a boring name to a bright man, and his cohorts. I was catching on, and they knew it.

"So they sent me off into the desert...Precisely where Irene was." Sherlock's face hardened, tears finding their way to his eyes once more. "I saved, her, John. When she had 'died' overseas, I saved her. But I saw her again, for the first time in months. She...she was the first...the first familiar face I'd seen in ages. She saw me, and started walking towards me...I was too shocked...too overwhelmed to act on the thought...I shouldn't have been there. I shouldn't have frozen. I should have just brushed her off and gotten on with my life. A glance should have been enough, but I froze. Oh, God, I froze, John. And they shot her. I-I watched as her body fell into the sand." The detective's eyes shook as if her were recounting the images in his mind as well. Clutching onto the blanket that still hung over his shoulders, Sherlock continued, "They just killed her. More shots rang out. Bang." He gritted his teeth, practically spitting the sound. "Bang. I was on the ground. I tried...I tried to see if she w-was a-alive, but I-I couldn't help her. I felt this n-need, to put her b-back to-together. I heard more bodies fall. And then s-silence. That silence. I couldn't imagine anything worse than that...Someone called my name. My real name. I looked up...and I saw two men. I'll never forget their faces. They said...they said that this was my warning, and that I had to leave. I saw their b-bodies, J-John. Twenty...Twenty-eight of them. In all." He swallowed, running each face through his mind, recalling how the sand lapped up their blood. "I remember them. All of them. Their faces. Most of them were kids, John. Just kids...No one had done anything wrong. No one except me. I shouldn't have been there. It was completely my fault...My fault that they're dead."

As tears spilled down Sherlock's face, John pulled the bundled man in close. "None of this is you fault, Sherlock. Don't you start thinking that...There was nothing you could have done. They set this all up."

"I know...I know they did!" Sherlock moaned between sobs. "But they wouldn't have...if I weren't..."

Shushing the younger man in his arms, John held him as he wept for the lives lost before his very eyes. The military man could more than relate, having seen more than a couple foot soldiers sacrifice themselves for the sake of the doctor. After all, kill the medic to kill all the men he would have saved...Disable the detective to set free all the men he ever would have caught. "It's not your fault, Sherlock. None of that is any of your fault."_  
_

"B-but I-I could have done m-more! Some of them...Some of them should have lived...And I-I f-failed," Sherlock moaned into the doctor's shoulder, voice box vibrating against his chest.

"Sherlock, they were sick. They did this to you...you aren't responsible for what you did," John explained as the detective squirmed in his arms as if each of his limbs was uncomfortable with its own existence.

Legs stirring and contracting in on themselves, arms wriggling out of the blanketed cocoon, fingers grabbing at the material of John's jumper, Sherlock soon found himself entirely in the older man's lap. Readjusting his arms around Sherlock's covered back, John felt the detective settle between his legs and sob into his chest. Though Sherlock's body gangly and awkward, by no means immature, the doctor couldn't help but think he had a child in his arms. A child, whose long, bony limbs prodded him in every which way. He was just too fragile, and John was afraid of just what would happen when he let go.

Mumbling incoherences into the doctor's shoulder, Sherlock's sobs became hitched. Why couldn't he have done enough, to have saved everyone? He could have done it; he could have done so much better. He wouldn't have had to kill as many people, see as many die at what might as well have been his own hand. Shushing the detective, John rubbed circles along his back and added, "None of this is any of your fault Sherlock...You did as much as you could have...Though you may be brilliant, even you have your limits. There was only so much you could have done, and I'm sure you did everything you could have. Especially with all those injuries...It's amazing you got anything done at all."

Sucking back mucus, Sherlock drew deep breaths, trying to calm himself down enough to continue functioning. "They g-gave me p-pain sup-suppressors," the detective explained. "I didn't...I didn't have to take them...But I did. I had to finish."

_That's how he kept working. _"But wouldn't that have clouded your mind?" John asked.

"No," Sherlock breathed. "I don't know how, or what they were made of...Turned off pain receptors. Only pressure. Made me sick...when they wore off...but I had to. The faster I finished...more rest. Every month, every month," the detective sung, as if mimicking someone.

Frowning, John had nothing more to say. The were using him, pushing him to beyond a point that most humans would stand bearing; it was nothing short of a miracle that this strange drug hadn't succeeded in killing the young man. "What happened...after Irene?" he inquired. They had to move this along.

Pushing himself away from John, and with some inelegance, the detective sat up across from his friend, giving John a good view of his puffy eyes. After wiping at them once more with his sleeves, Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke, "After Irene...I continued my task, did as they asked of me with little resistance. I knew they would kill everyone if I so much as disobeyed a toe...I finally accepted that I would never be going back to London...And that was when they made it blatantly obvious they were following me, and after I'd completed my assignment, they picked me up right off the streets...In daylight amongst a crowd. I fought, I knew _they _had come for me. Not those I'd just disbanded, no. It was Fletcher. It just had to be. I hadn't been broken enough...As if not having a home to return to was enough.

"They kept me awake, drugging me...The hallucinations were frightening...Three whole days, and when they finally left me to unconsciousness, they dumped me somewhere. I woke up two days later, in the care of a woman and her daughter in this pitiful shack by a canal...And I didn't know what else to do other than just run. I had to keep them uninvolved. That was my repayment...For saving me when they themselves had nothing...

"Once I finally found my way back to my hotel room, I found a bus ticket sitting on the desk, waiting for me, mocking me. They knew I would go. I had to...And I tried to do my task there, but I'd caught some sort of illness. I was confined to my bed for weeks, stuck in this fever-induced delirium. I knew then that I wasn't ever unguarded. I'd found medicine sitting next to a glass of water on my nightstand. I didn't care what it did anymore, and I just accepted it as the only kindness I was allowed. Once my condition improved, I still had my assignment, and I had nothing on the man...Absolutely nothing." Sherlock sighed, eyes losing focus for a moment.

"All I had was a name. Just one name. One week. I soon learned that the syndicate's information was wrong, and that this man lived a good ways away. I managed to get there three days before the deadline. Even though I was drugged, I was still in a daze..." Sherlock sighed again. "I knew he ran a nightclub, so I went early in the morning to check it out...And then I found him alone in the back, counting his profits for the night. He saw me. An enemy, he was terrified. I wasn't supposed to be there. It was after hours; he'd sent all his other employees home. I had just intended to collect information, but he was there, plain as day...He pulled a knife and came at me...I grabbed the nearest blunt object and swung for his skull. He fell back, into a shelf, and it collapsed on him...I stopped...I stopped dead in my tracks, and watched as blood pooled to the floor, glass embedded all over his body. I-I didn't in-intend to. It just...It just happened. I looked around the room, found no cameras, and fled. I just ran. I'd killed a man and returned to the hotel! As if it were nothing! I just...I just killed him...I had everything in front of me, and I just left.

"I-I became obsessed with him. His name was Carlo. Carlo Gordon. I had to find out who he was, why they wanted me to 'get rid of him'. I could have...I could have just paid more attention, but when I reviewed what I saw...Nothing worked, John. It was frustrating...I just saw _things._ Nothing else, just objects. They seemed to mean nothing. After reading the papers and talking to others around the street, I learned he had a problem with the mafia. That he was operating where he shouldn't have been, that he just wanted to run an honest bar. He had just been warned...He was scared, John. He was scared...And I killed him," Sherlock confessed with a remorseful huff.

"Sherlock..."

"No, don't," the detective interrupted. "I know you're going to try and rationalise this for me, but I know it was self-defense...I just, I shouldn't have been so careless. He was innocent...Completely innocent. It's my fault, John, and there's no way it can be sugar-coated to convince me otherwise..."

Taking another breath to calm himself, Sherlock continued, "Unfortunately, while under this compulsion to find information on Carlo Gordon, I fell off their radar, and once they found me, I was drugged and forced into the back of a car. They spent hours interrogating me about my intentions...I said I just was trying to finish my job...They weren't convinced. Over and over." Sherlock's eyes shook as he looked at John, fists clenched. "They wouldn't stop, John. I never thought they would. I was so tired, so dreadfully tired. I couldn't sleep. Everything hurt, John. They didn't break anything. They couldn't do such permanent damage to 'equipment', but I thought I was going to die. And then they drugged me.

I woke up in a different sleazy hotel room, all my things nicely put away, on the bed as if I had just peaceably spent the night. My head was foggy, I didn't know where I was, but I knew it was somewhere new. It felt entirely different, like a new country. I saw my notebook sitting there with a hotel pen waiting for me. As I went over to the desk to write, to settle and organise my thoughts, I felt an unusual ache in my left wrist. When I looked down, I saw it swollen. I knew it. They'd inserted something, to keep track of me, I would never just 'fall off the radar' again. Unless I cut it out. I had to cut it out. I know you saw, John. The blood. You had to have seen it." The doctor solemnly nodded. "It drove me mad, John, and for a while, I just did as I was told. I tuned it out...I became their slave. And after what seemed like eternity, I just stopped noticing...I became numb to what I was doing, what they were doing to me...I just went through the motions."

Gripping his knee with his good hand, Sherlock elaborated, "I feel so guilty. I did whatever it was I needed to do, destroyed so many people, and they still took me in for a 'monthly checkup' regularly before or after an assignment. They hadn't done enough to crush me. No matter how many times they beat me, I could never fully ignore the pain, no matter how I tried. Not until I returned, and I could take more of those awful pills...I wanted to feel nothing. I wished they would just send me to oblivion. They decided that wasn't enough...pain, pain was something I could brush off, they said. It didn't break me. It was only three days. It was always three days...So they began hiring perverts...

I-I won't go into the details again, John. I won't do that again, but do you remember what I told you? He wasn't the last, either...He was one of three. Three of them...with their own...preference. For a whole other year...Until last year. I mindlessly did my job and just accepted their monthly punishments. I had to. I couldn't learn who they were otherwise..." Sherlock admitted, toying with his fingers nervously as he looked up at John. The doctor was trying to contain his emotion, but the detective could see how upset he really was. Forehead creasing, eyes saddened, John wished he could do more than be here for his friend. He wanted for nothing more than to rip these dead men from what he hoped their paupers' graves and beat away their grasp on Sherlock. Even in death, they had some power over him, and he hated it.

"But there's nothing left for you to do. After the start of last year, I killed each of them, one by one. They won't so much as touch another person ever again...I even started reporting my 'superiors' to the police, and they soon caught on. McCollum died in a drug dispute, too, along with those bastards that killed Irene...About six months ago, I stopped receiving assignments, and I was left to go after Fletcher and his remaining associates. I completely dismantled his empire, and those who remained had a bit of a grudge. Now that I was no longer working for them, I didn't have their protection. If it wasn't their doing, the organisation would not tolerate my captivity. I was no longer off-limits, and they abused that power...I barely got out. Not only was I not protected, but I was unfinanced, and I worked odd jobs to save up enough, all while avoiding old enemies and getting enough on them to keep them out of sight. I would come back to London, my final job, and put an end to Fletcher, using one of the identities –Jacob Ashdown– that the organisation had created.

"We continued playing the game. He knew he could have kept me longer...he had the power. He could have just forced me back to where I was. I just suppose he got bored with me. I wasn't fun anymore. The game wasn't fun anymore." _They treated him like a plaything...How dare they. _Grinding his teeth, John tried to quell his anger, but couldn't quite manage it. It was absolutely maddening. How dare they.

Shaking his head, Sherlock concluded, "It was...anticlimactic. After taking down entire factions of this global syndicate, I was left with what was back here in London. After half the world, I was left with Fletcher and a couple of his men, and it wasn't even particularly difficult. I sent a rival gang information upon arrival, and they diminished his group...Fletcher was nothing without his power...He was a bored sociopath. When I walked into his building, he had killed all of his remaining men. It was just the two of us, surrounded by their corpses...As I pinned him to the floor, I asked him why, and I found out how much fun the thought of tormenting me brought him...It infuriated me, and I was about to shoot him when I realised that's precisely what he wanted me to do. I just couldn't...I couldn't let him play me again, so I left him there. It was a poor decision. As I started to leave, he grabbed me by the ankle, and I fell into a table...It's how I got this." Sherlock lifted up his broken arm as an example and continued, "I landed just right, and I felt it immediately. Swinging around, I saw his mad eyes. He really had nothing left to lose, and he dove for me, knocking me hard into the ground. I suppose that's when I got that concussion...But as I was trying to regain my composure, he pinned me to the ground and started choking me, taunting me." Tenderly, he caressed the base of his throat and gulped. Even his own touch was too much to leave him with his sense of safety.

"I kneed him in the gut and he rolled off me. After I regained enough air, I grabbed for the nearest object on the ground, a stone paperweight, and struck him with it in the back. He had thought a similar idea, and grabbed a knife from one man's dead hand and stabbed me. Right here," Sherlock pointed to the spot. "I scrambled back and found the body of one of his men, my hands were sticky with his blood as I sloshed back into it. But I had to get away from Fletcher, swinging his arm like a madman. I half-stumbled over the dead man, and I found a gun under his waistline as I slid over him. My vision was starting to fail me, but I drew it and shot once. It was enough. Once in the chest. I pulled myself up and fled, only to pass out a few blocks down. It was then I woke up in your hospital, questioned by the oblivious police, to which I implied that I could not quite recall how exactly I'd incurred my injuries. And then we met once more. I suppose that doesn't need summaries now, does it?" Pondering a moment, he added, "And the shooter...He was related to one of the men that Fletcher killed, a fledgling in the group, and he pinned the blame on me...He was just like McCollum, someone out for revenge. There shouldn't be anyone else..."

John sat speechless, trying to process everything he had just heard, replaying the story in his mind. It was just too much for him to conceive, his brilliant best friend being caught by a sociopath, forced into crime, forced to endure much more than most any human could bear. All for the sake of everyone back home. Even though Sherlock had wished he could find his way out, he worked so hard, and John couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest and a lump form in his throat. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Sherlock knew, by now, that he was far from a sociopath, he had cleared himself of these coping disillusions. Though John knew it more than anyone, Sherlock was the most human of anyone he knew, and the man himself was starting to realise it. But this epiphany was at an unbearable cost: his freedom from his own mind.

He just wanted to wrap the detective up and protect him from any harm that may come his way, but he had already failed. He couldn't save Sherlock; he couldn't even help him when he needed him the most. _Useless, Watson, just positively useless, _John berated himself.

Sherlock exhaled deeply, relinquishing a host of negative emotions. Though his problems weren't simply solved, his wounds still raw and aching, a dullness radiating throughout him, he felt better than he had in ages. Simply saying everything aloud, to more than a notebook's ear, to someone who cared, was enough to calm him down. He was safe, and for the first time in three years, he knew that somehow, everything would be alright in the end. What he hadn't told John, what he couldn't tell John, Mycroft knew. Between the two of them, Sherlock was sure they could help him pick up the pieces; they would set everything right.

Patting John's knee, Sherlock smiled at the older man. "You didn't fail, John. Not in the slightest," he reassured. "Thank you...It was always you."

"Always me?" he asked, looking up.

"You'd always be the only one to help," the detective returned, still smiling, freedom washing over him.

Without questioning it further, John took a moment to appreciate the thought. Though he couldn't have done anything for Sherlock in the past, he could support him now. "But what was it you were going to do, after they released you from the hospital? Had you not met me that very day, and they let you go 'home'...What would you have done?" he asked, hoping the answer wasn't what he feared._  
_

"I had nothing to return to, no reason to do anything...You do the math, John," Sherlock admitted. He didn't want to linger much more on his moments of weakness.

"But now?"

"...It's fine. Don't concern yourself with it. My earlier condition has been rescinded," Sherlock clarified. He couldn't do such a thing with John there. He couldn't put him through that twice.

"...Oh," John muttered, the conversation falling with him. After a few moments of exchanging silent glances, he continued, "Why did you want to drive me away when we met?"

Sherlock sighed and mumbled, "I didn't want to deal with it...with everyone. You all could have done better without my filthy–"

"Sherlock, I know you feel responsible for what's happened in these last three years, but it's not your fault. It's not your fault that you had to do what you did. You were presented with a choice: cooperate just enough to beat them eventually and let us live without you, die and leave us to their revenge. It's not your fault that we missed you; they kept you from us. Sure, I'm a bit miffed that I never knew that you were trying to pull the wool over my eyes, but you did it...for us. You were willing to risk your life to keep every shadow of harm from ours...I know you thought you could have done better, but from the sounds of it, you really could have died, Sherlock. Had you worked any harder, done anything more, your body could have completely just given up on you...You were hardly left with a choice in the matter. I've killed people, too. There was usually little else to do, and I know you wouldn't squander life if you could help it." Exhaling, he finished, "You worked so hard, had to endure so much, and yet you're still here, Sherlock. You're still here, and you have no idea how happy I am. I thought you were dead, and everyday for a year I prayed that it was all just a hoax, that you'd run back into the flat, covered in some unidentifiable substance, toting an abnormal weapon of sorts, your shoes soggy with rain water because they would hardly let you on any form of transportation...I don't care about the blood on your hands, or how exactly you received all of your scars, how much muck you've been forced to encounter and live in...I'm just glad that you're back...that you want to be back, that you never wanted to leave. I'm so lucky, Sherlock, to have you back in my life again. I don't mind whatever condition, it's you. You can't possibly be filthy...You are brilliant, a beautiful human, so stop that, Sherlock. Just stop it...We're not too good for you. No matter how far you think you've fallen, we're still lucky to have you here. You deserve our love, Sherlock."

The detective stared at his friend throughout the entirety of his speech with a stony face, shocked that he had been interrupted. Before long, he felt his lip waver under Watson's sincerity, and when the doctor finished, a silence permeated throughout the room. Was it really alright to be loved? When John shot him a weak smile, Sherlock melted partially into the house, the weight of his words finally bearing down on them. Tears silently coursing down his face, Sherlock slowly broke down into full sobs. Was it really alright? To let others care for him? To love himself?

As John pulled his younger friend into his arms, Sherlock muttered, "Thank you, John."

"Thank you, Sherlock," he returned, squeezing tighter. Though he couldn't take revenge on Sherlock's abusers, no matter how desperately he would like to, he knew he could help fight away his past's demons now. With time, he knew, that they could regain life within some spectrum of normalcy. As normal as life could be living with Sherlock Holmes. After all, a little more than a week with Sherlock felt like he had more than a novel's length to mention. Maybe, with the detective's permission, he could start up his blog once more. Let the world know just how wrong they were for doubting Sherlock's motives, for doubting his him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Mycroft closed the lid of his laptop and pushed it away from him, filled with disgust, a sinking feeling in his gut. What had he just watched? Five minutes was too much. Swallowing back against his tightening throat, Mycroft couldn't help but replay the images in his mind; screams, moans, whimpers, and cries echoing. Anger bubbled inside him. How could someone possibly do this to his brother? And then _record it? _

Reading about it was bad enough, but now that an abhorrent stack of DVDs sat on his desk, the reality of Sherlock's stuck a chord of realness. As far as he knew, there were no other copies, and he knew that they would end with him. He would destroy them after he confirmed that each one was indeed as Sherlock had identified. Mycroft knew he couldn't put himself through another round of that, but he couldn't leave room for error. There would be no extra copy in existence, and there was no one else who could do the job. He had to do it.

But seconds, he would only watch seconds before stopping. He couldn't endure seeing another of his sibling's desperate plea to the camera, eyes too mortified to focus clearly, readjusting themselves rapidly. He couldn't watch as he cried and sputtered, all too aware of what was happening, body flailing and contorting against its restraints, his captor's touch. The older man couldn't look into Sherlock's tormented eyes again; he couldn't admit how much he had failed him.

Sighing, Mycroft slid his laptop back in front of him and opened the lid, clicking the CD drive open. After removing the disk, he slung it into the rubbish bin. He would have to smash the lot of them when he was finished and possibly grind them into an indistinguishable, fine metallic meal before disposing of them entirely. Slipping another disk into his drive, Mycroft continued with his final task, fantasising about just how he would have had this bastard killed had he still been habituating the sunny side of the grass.

Sherlock had been too kind, Mycroft fumed as he chucked another disk in the bin. The detective simply let them beg for mere moments before killing them. Swift deaths, he scoffed. They deserved so much worse, and his brother let them off easy. Switching disks once more, tossing the third to follow its predecessors, Mycroft tried to tune out the entirety of what he was viewing, only processing just enough to understand that he had one of the correct DVDs. This was the worst of his tasks, of setting Sherlock's life back into some sort of order.

With ease, Mycroft cleared up any and all deaths that had taken place in the course of his brother's travels, tricked the police and media that Sherlock had unequivocally brought the end of a criminal empire (run by Moriarty, of course) without any illegal activity (thus restoring his reputation), and as a bit of kindness, he anonymously gave compensation to innocents involved in Sherlock's meddling (this, he decided, was going to be a bit of a surprise to lift his brother's spirits). Now all he was left with this. _Click, _another disk fell against the others.

Though he had to put himself through only what was an iota of Sherlock's pain, Mycroft felt a part of his heart ache as well. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he loved his brother, and what happened could still be partially considered his blame (though in his entries, Sherlock rebuffed this view, claiming that they would have gotten to him without Moriarty). He felt guilty, like he needed to overcompensate, when all he wanted was to spend a bit more time with the younger man. After reading his journal of sorts, of analysing the massive webs of ranked criminals in various organisations, of seeing all these tapes, Mycroft wanted to be convinced that he would be alright, not entirely sold on the idea that he himself would be able to get over it.

But if it would be anyone, it would be Sherlock. To be able to live through such an ordeal. Despite the mess that he had brought with him, the trauma that he now carried with him, Sherlock's return left him happier than he had been in years. It was discomforting, how giddy he felt at times. His baby brother was back, he was alive, and he was a survivor. He finally had the chance to say all the things he had missed in the past decade (which, incidentally, was caused by his nannying tendencies back in the day – which, thankfully, might be appreciated now given the present circumstance). Or not. He could leave such things unsaid, right? Sherlock surely had to know, right? After all, it was so painfully obvious to him. Knowing Sherlock was just a skip away was comforting enough, and he could do his part here.

Mycroft gave a faint smile to himself, tossing the final disk into the bin. A good towel to protect his already-scarred desk and a hammer would be just enough to suit him quite nicely right now.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**Epilogue: Two Months Later**

Gingerly carrying a bouquet of sweet peas, Sherlock strode through the streets of London like it was nothing, John following at his heels. Though the air was not particularly fresh, nothing like some of the places he had encountered in the last few years, but it was home and he was free to use his own name, the media maelstrom quieting to a bubbling silence.

Too troubled by the attention, the sunlight, the noise to feel perfectly capable of functioning, Sherlock had waited a whole month to so much as leave the safety of the flat, using John as a buffer to the outside world. When the doctor had had enough of his friend's depression, he forced him outside to go grocery shopping with him. The fresh air would do him some good. To John's surprise, the detective bolted down the street, taking in the view of the city he had been bereft of. Sherlock felt capricious, seeing the same old thing new. It was exciting, so much to catalogue.

Once he felt confident again to walk the streets of his childhood, Sherlock waited another month to pluck up the courage to visit his mother's grave, partially using the excuse that the sweet pea season didn't begin until February. These always were his mother's favorite flowers, he mused, eyeballing the bobbing light pink blooms. No matter how soothing the memories associated with these blossoms were, he still felt anxious. Even now as he cut through the brisk air on the way to the cemetery that he was no longer 'buried' in (Mycroft had removed the headstone and the empty coffin), he was still uneasy about seeing his mother. Surely if she were still alive, he'd get a petty smack to the head, a tight hug, and then probably some tears...Then there would be the lecture of why to never do that again, how he'd nearly killed her...Except that he had.

Groaning under his breath, the two arrived at the cemetery, and John lingered back at the gate. He would leave Sherlock to himself; he needed to do this. Finding a space on a nearby bench, the doctor watched as his friend entered the grassy place of rest, his pace noticeably slower than before.

Though he didn't particularly want to, Sherlock continued walking, his feet taking him there against his will. He would have to deal with this sometime; he would have to finally come to terms with the last of those he had left behind.

Arriving at his mother's headstone, he read her name, engraved in silver lettering on the reflective black stone, just as his had been. Sherlock placed the flowers near its base and let the reality of the situation sink in. Glancing over at the space that was his own plot, he realised that she was actually dead, not like he had been. She wasn't coming back.

The detective sunk to his knees, overwhelmed by the reality. "Hello, Mummy. It's Sherlock," he greeted the headstone, catching sight of his own appearance in the reflection. He always did look like her, and with his untrimmed hair even more so. "I-I'm back. I'm sorry. I wasn't here with you all this time, but I am now...I guess it's too late though, huh? I brought your favorites...I remember how you used to fill the house with them when you came home...I had planned to come see you before I died, but I couldn't find the time...I should have. I-I didn't know I wouldn't get another chance."

Checking that no one else was around, he continued, his throat tightening, "I hope you didn't think you were a bad mother. You weren't...You had to go, you were busy. You and father both. You couldn't have spent the rest of your time with me. I had already grown up...and besides that, Mycroft had done enough of the mothering for the two of you. I hurt you by extension, after I rebelled against him and his control, after I stubbornly tromped out of the house and got myself into all sorts of trouble. I was childish. I'm sorry, Mummy. None of this was supposed to happen this way...

"I hope you wouldn't be cross with me...I died for the people I loved, and now they're helping me remember how to live. I'm doing better, I swear. They're quite lovely, Mother, but you know that. John has fond memories of you, and I remember how much you had liked him. You don't have to fret over me anymore, Mummy, I'll be alright. I'm not dead...and I'm sorry if I had any part in your death...I didn't mean to worry you. I'm sorry, Mummy. I'm so terribly sorry," Sherlock apologised, eyes tearing up.

Wiping his eyes, he stood. "I shouldn't stay much longer...I can't leave John waiting for too long. I'll be back, I promise. Goodbye, Mummy."

As he turned to walk back towards the entrance, tears pricking his eyes, he saw a disturbed plot and immediately noticed that the date of death was all of ten years back. It had been dug within recency, two or three days. The grave had been patted down with a shovel, and judging by the drooping, wilted flowers and weeds sprouting from a few of the nearby graves, the caretaker hadn't been around in days. He probably didn't even know that one grave digger with evenly worn tread (including the inner arches) and a standard shoe size 9 had been putzing around with one of his tenants. Examining the plot further, he made note of the name, Penelope Hurst, as well as her birth and death dates. Intrigued, the detective walked around a few more plots, which were totally undisturbed. _A plain spade, size 9 shoes, flat-footed...__A grave digger wouldn't just hit one..._

Excited by the revelation, Sherlock sent John an impatient text to come inside. As he eagerly tapped his foot, arms crossed in discontent, John read the text, rolled his eyes, and strolled into the cemetery.

"What took you so long?" the detective asked upon sight of his friend, agitation filling his voice.

John scoffed, letting out an exasperated sigh, "You literally waited two minutes. What is this all about?"

"Gravediggers!" Sherlock exclaimed, excitement growing by the second, a smirk cutting across his face. He hadn't had a case in ages, and this was just what he needed to raise his mood. "Besides, you told me not to wander off...Anyway, to the caretaker's cabin!" Sherlock rushed for the edge of the cemetery as quickly as his legs would allow him, leaving a dumbstruck John back in the dust.

_When did he start listening to me? _John wondered, watching his friend shrink as he traveled into the distance. "Hey, wait!" John cried, chasing after the detective, who was titillated beyond belief. As he ran, the doctor realised he was in no shape for this and slowed down, thankful that Sherlock had finally reached his destination; he had a chance to catch up.

Though his breath was short and he still had a ways to go, John smiled. The detective seemed happy, if only for as long as the case lasted. With time, he would surely get even better. Sherlock had already started smiling more, trying to make himself happier by appearing as such. He had worked hard, trying to slip into a routine, spending countless hours yelling at the television and seeing Mycroft, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson and her new family with regularity. After getting his cast removed, Sherlock finally started brushing back up on his violin, playing as if he hadn't been separated a second. And now that he had found a case, he could revel in his own state of normalcy for a little while before the nightmares returned, before he came back up to John's room in the middle of the night with tear-streaked cheeks.

The nightmares were a bit less frequent, and occasionally, the doctor could find his friend at unease, anxiously on unnecessarily high alert. However, this new Sherlock seemed clingier, sillier, more expressive, and his classic round of disdain had all but been wiped from his outward personality entirely (though, in fairness, the detective had hardly been given a chance to interact with many other humans). In a way, it made John slightly uncomfortable, but he knew that it would just take him time. Sherlock was improving, slowly but surely, he was getting there.

Arriving at the caretaker's cabin, he saw Sherlock crouched down next to a body, a deep neck would clearly the cause of death. "Well then," John muttered, caught by surprise at the sight.

"Definitely a seven," Sherlock remarked, studying the remains and the room, confident that the caretaker himself had robbed one Penelope Hurst a few nights back. Springing back up to his feet, the detective swung around and searched for the murder weapon, face lighting up as he found it. This was all just too much fun.

_Yup, _John thought, _everything will be alright..._

**End**

**A/n: Oh my god. Am I done? I'm DONE! If you're interested in the short, light little romance chapter I plan on tacking on, please stick around. If not, this is the end! The end! Anyhow, now that you've read, please, please, please review! And switch your little "follower" status to, you know, "favorite" and things. But mainly review. Even if it's short, sweet, whatever, it would mean a lot to this silly little high school student (especially for these terribly long chapters, that I'm done with the main story arc, and that my laptop's hard drive just died and I need a good cheering up - thank you Doc Manager). But summer is in two weeks! I will be finishing Letters for You sooner rather than later (once my laptop gets fixed/replaced) and writing my Molly fic, so please check those out! 'Till next time!**


	18. Bonus

**A/n: Hello there! At this point, I'd like to thank all of my readers for sticking around through this whole thing. It's been great, and you guys are are awesome. I see you managed to stick around for the fluff! First off, I'd like to warn you all that not only is this not all that romantically involved (as I think the JohnLock relationship is best served rather light and is rather similar to their present relationship), so if you were expecting hardcore smex, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Anyhow, this should be short and sweet, and probably terribly out of character. But it's a post-fic fanservice, so why the hell not? **

**Disclaimer: I think...I think yeah, we got this down.**

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

**My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting**

**Bonus**

Waking with a jolt, Sherlock gasped in the cold air that filled his room. As he thrashed in his blankets, fear consumed him. Was it just the dream? Was he still trapped somewhere in the dark? Was coming home to John really just a dream, his "dream" a barely-conscious reality? Writhing around, he managed to cast aside his covers, drenched in sweat. After tossing them to the ground, Sherlock smacked around his nightstand for his light; he had to confirm where he was. Finding the button of his lamp, he pushed it and the room filled with light, momentarily blinding him.

As the cool air settled around him, Sherlock's eyes begrudgingly readjusted to the light. Everything was as it should be: he was in his room, his freshly-laundered sheets littering the recently-vacuumed floor. Yes, that's right, he thought, recalling how John had helped him clean it as Mrs. Hudson did the laundry.

Hissing through clenched teeth, the detective's good hand migrated to his neck, the wound throbbing harshly, serving as another reminder that this was his present reality. He could feel his heart still beating rapidly, thudding in his ears, against his injury. Hand shaking, Sherlock settled it back down into his lap, unnerved. The dream was still all too real; he was trapped, chained to a wall. Couldn't move, couldn't sit, his only reprieve from slouching against the jagged bricks. They kept him alive on next to nothing, leaving him alone in the damp cold, shoeless and shirtless, blood from his injuries left sticky against his chest. It was always dark, pure darkness, until they opened the squealing metal door, blinding him with this bright light that was no more than a few meters away. So small a distance separated him from what could be freedom, and it killed them.

His chest giving a sympathetic twinge from the thought, Sherlock shuddered, another wave of fear overcoming him accompanied by a bout of nausea. He knew he was safe, that he was home, that these men were dead, but he couldn't shake the memory. Sucking back his breath, Sherlock staggered out of his bed, feet uncertainly wavering underneath him. He had to get out of here. Here wasn't safe.

Teetering over to his door, the detective threw it open and wobbled out of it, feeling along for the furniture to guide him. As he started up the stairs, he felt a chill course through him and his clothes dry a bit more. The further he ascended, the less the meager light from his room illuminated his path. He had to climb them all, but they seemed never-ending. When was climbing stairs supposed to be this hard? Misjudging the final step, Sherlock overextended and fell to his knees, landing with a thud against the wood.

Pushing himself up with his good arm, the detective was careful to not tilt backwards. Falling down the stairs was the last thing he needed. Swaying, Sherlock made his way to John's bedroom door, stopping as his hand fell over the doorknob, a moment of clarity washing over him.

As another fretful chill wracked his body, the darkness getting to him, Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside. Here, he thought, here was safe. Closing the door to a crack, the detective crept inside until he reached the bed. If he recalled, John slept on the end that was closer to the window. Lifting the down comforter slightly, Sherlock's assertions were proven correct and he slid into the opposing side of the bed.

John's heat radiated from him despite the frigid December night. He was always warm, always safe. Settling himself in, he closed his eyes and inhaled, the doctor's scent immediately calming him down. Warmth enveloping him, Sherlock drifted off as he felt John shift over, subconsciously throwing an arm around his bedmate outside the covers.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Slowly emerging from a restful slumber, John smiled. He'd spent the night with someone, and that someone was currently buried into his chest. This was new, hadn't happened in a while. Maybe he was starting to feel better, get used to life again. Just maybe. Giving his bedmate's slender frame a squeeze, he hummed tunelessly, trying to remember the details of last night. Had he gotten a bit smashed at the pub last night? That hadn't happened in a while, either. Had his boss finally gotten him to go out? He was a bit hazy, but there were no signs of a hangover. What had he done? He hadn't been this happy in ages.

Eyes still closed, he ran his hand down the woman's back. _Thin, tall too, _he noted, feeling each backbone through a thin shirt as he trailed up her back (no bra, seemed promising). He could feel the slightest curl in each, and he had to smoother his grin. She was perfectly curled into him, and John could always go for the touchy type. Finding her hair, he scruffled it for a moment. Curls, he was fine with that, hair not too terribly long, but still by no means short.

Opening his eyes a peak, he allowed the morning light to rouse him, eyes focusing faster than they had in ages. For the first time in a long time, he felt well-rested. Yawning away the rest of his wear, John stretched, trying not to wake the woman sleeping next to him. Separating himself from her, he slid to the edge of the bed, extending his arms above his head to rax.

As he got up to examine the forgotten beauty he'd surely landed over the course of the night, John stopped for a moment dead in his tracks. What woman's feet hung off the bed? Were that large? Warily, he toed over to his partner's edge of the bed and gasped at the realisation, falling back slightly into his nightstand, using it to brace himself.

Sherlock. How could he have forgotten? Sherlock was back, that's why he was happy, and there was no way he had gone to bed with him. When did he even get in here? How did he not notice? And why on Earth were they...cuddling? Completely embarrassed, putting a ripe tomato to shame, he started down the stairs to make breakfast. He'd let Sherlock sleep a little longer, then they would have to talk.

The detective rolled over in discontent. His heat source, his comfort, was gone. Eyes snapping awake, Sherlock realised the gravity of the situation. _I...I walked into John's room this morning...and crawled into his bed. _Groaning at his own impulsive, half-awake stupidity, he turned on his side to ponder the situation. How could he possibly face John after this? He had surely stepped over the line this time. It's not like this could be written off as an accident. John's room was on the second floor, and unless snooping for something in particular (which was unbeknownst to the doctor), Sherlock never came up here. He had made the effort to come up and crawl into bed. Moaning, he gave himself a few more minutes, trying to prolong the time before the pending confrontation.

Waiting a good ten minutes, Sherlock finally pried himself of the comfort of John's bed and sauntered downstairs, where John had just finished eggs. He didn't quite know what to say, his inner child reverting to poor innuendos. _And breakfast, too?, _he thought to himself, trying to hide his immature, boyish grin.

As John set two plates of scrambled eggs with forks unceremoniously buried in the yellow, fluffy mass, he announced, "Food."

Sherlock obliged by sitting in his seat, immediately refocusing his attention onto the eggs. They were just the right consistency, not to watery, not too hard, sprinkled with just the proper amount of black pepper. Stabbing at one of the puffy mounds, he heard John pull the chair out as it scraped past the floor, and with a light _plop_ he was sitting, another slide to sure him up against the table. The detective could feel the doctor's eyes on him, studying him, waiting for an iota of a response. Ogling his food, Sherlock waited for a sigh and a defeated fork scraping against the plate before stealing a quick peak at his friend, who seemed slightly confused, his eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly.

The aroma of toasted bread wafted into the room and a pop emerged from the kitchen. John slid out of his chair and retrieved the toast, gingerly tossing it onto a small plate before removing partial prints from fingertips. After unplugging the toaster, he fetched the strawberry jam from the fridge and a butter knife from the drawer. Walking back into the other room, John placed the toast in front of Sherlock. He'd have to look up now.

Sure enough, the detective glanced up long enough for the sake of warm toast, locking eyes with John. Retreating his gaze to the eggs, his nimble hand darted out to snag a piece and toss it back onto his plate. "Sherlock," John began with a serious tone.

Sherlock sheepishly looked up, unsure of what expression to put before the older man. It was embarrassing. This whole thing was embarrassing. Why couldn't he have been the first to wake up, the first to be shocked, to stammer out of bed, badgering himself about his own actions. Why did John have to know, too?

Clearing his throat, the doctor pressed, "Sherlock, why...Why were you in my bed this morning?"

The detective stared at his friend. He hadn't the slightest as to say. Why did he do it? "I don't know..." he admitted, knowing that this wouldn't land him anywhere nice.

John blinked hard, trying to understand the situation before him. "Were you...sleepwalking?"

"No..." Sherlock returned. "I was definitely awake. I just don't know why I thought to do that..." As much as he knew the sleepwalking excuse may or may not exonerate him from further questioning, the detective was troubled. Why on Earth would he do such a thing?

"Last time...Didn't you say that it was because your linens were dusty?"

Sherlock nodded, trying to jog his memory. He had, indeed, done that before. Yet somehow, it didn't seem right. It wasn't entirely because his linens were dusty. If that were simply the case, he'd have made his bed the couch like usual. But no, he remembered he wanted a bed, a proper bed in which to sleep that first afternoon. That he thought about things he hadn't wanted to...Like last night. Last night was a dream, nothing more than a bad dream. Somewhere safe. John was safe; he would protect him. That's why he did it. John made him feel safe.

Watching Sherlock's expressions as he spaced out into deep thought, John continued, "You thought of something, didn't you?"

"I just...had a bad dream s'all," Sherlock slurred, not entirely sure that the was the entirety of his story. He had wandered into John's bed the first time because it felt safe, it smelled safe; it smelled like John. Internally badgering himself, Sherlock thought he had moved past this. Apparently not.

"Oh," John breathed. "You can wake me up next time..."

Shaking his head, the detective vollied, "I didn't want to wake you up...That was enough. I fell back asleep, and I didn't have any more dreams...Did it bother you?"

"Not particularly..." John denied. The situation didn't bother him as much as it startled him. "It was just a bit of a shock waking up to your flatmate in your bed." He didn't want to admit their otherwise-compromising positioning this morning.

"Oh." Did that mean that John sort of liked him? At least enough as a friend.

Did that mean Sherlock would be sneaking into his bed more often? Did that bother him? He figured it should, cuddling with your best mate didn't particularly seem like behavior a perfectly straight man should be embracing, but he couldn't find much of a mind to let it bother him more. It was more embarrassing than anything; he had just 'slept' with Sherlock Holmes. "Why me?" he brought himself to ask. Just what did Sherlock think of him?

Debating whether or not to tell the truth, Sherlock mentally asked his eggs, hoping the now-cold breakfast could in some way help him. "I feel safer," he finally settled. "You won't hurt me."

"Oh." And awkward silence struck between the two, both suddenly fascinated by their cold food. Sighing, John managed, "Sherlock, do you like me?"

"Of course," the detective snapped sharply. "You're my only friend, of course I like you."

Shaking his head, he persisted, "No, do you _like _me?"

"What are we, five?" Sherlock scoffed, trying to avoid the topic.

"Yes, we are. If that means you'll answer my question..."

The detective froze, eyes widening. Face flushed, Sherlock let his shaggy hair droop as he stared at the table. My, the wood grains were certainly interesting today. What was he supposed to even say? "Yes," he mumbled in a low voice. No use in lying now; he'd already said everything else.

Did he hear that right? John stammered, "You like me...like that?" Sherlock nodded from the safety of his hair. "For how long?"

"I realised it a long while ago..." Sherlock trailed off, muddled in his own timeline. Just when did he notice? He remembered that he first noticed that John was special after their first case. They worked so well together, and before he knew it, Sherlock wanted the older man in his life. _Now that was a first, _he thought. He had a friend. _Another first. S_omeone that he set aside from everyone else, someone that left him terribly confused. Not only had the anti-social detective never had a friend to his name, but he hadn't so much as given a thought to a potential lover. He was inexperienced in relationships, so painfully so that he didn't know how to define just what he felt for the kind doctor.

Sherlock had known since he was a teenager that his brother had a proclivity towards men, that there was nothing wrong with homosexuality. He wondered if he could feel the same; after all, no one had meant this much to him his entire life. After some research and deleted search history (on John's laptop – his was dead), Sherlock came to believe that he might regard his only friend as something more. He would allow himself to fantasise about the things that the fangirls (and in some instances, fanboys) left on the internet to be read by like-minded individuals, and he was one of them. If anyone, it would be John.

For a week or so, he recalled, he was trapped in this mindset where he fervently favored this idea, lapping up the stray comments or questions by others about their relationship. But that was when John noticed, the detective scoffed internally. Reality struck him as his doctor got yet another girl, some silly girl. What was so good about her that Sherlock didn't have? That's right, she was a female. John liked girls, and he wasn't a girl. It was impossible. He could never be anything more to his friend.

John was flabbergasted to say the least, finally managing, "Why didn't...you know, say anything?"

Sherlock shot up, brow furrowed. The explanation couldn't have been any simpler. "Why would I want to ruin what we already had? It's take that and be silent or say something and have nothing. I'd take the former thank you very much!" he snapped, slightly angry. Now that he had said it, wouldn't John just be uncomfortable? Would he still have nothing? Great.

"You think I would have dissolved our friendship over that...?" John trailed off, disappointed in the faith the detective put in him.

"No...but the thought had crossed my mind," Sherlock returned. "Why mess with something good? When I knew you would never consider it...You like girls, John, I've accepted that."

"'Why mess with something good?'" the doctor repeated as he rose from his chair, the answer was so easy. Walking over to Sherlock's side, John placed his left hand on the table for balance and leaned in close to the detective.

Sherlock froze for a moment, caught staring into John's eyes. He couldn't move, could scarcely breathe, excited for what was about to happen next.

"Because something good may come of it, that's why," John breathed with a boyish grin. Hovering in closer, the doctor paused before the detective's lips. Completely bewildered, Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh in anticipation. Eyes widening in realisation of his own actions, John couldn't do it. This was too soon for such things. Opting out, John swung up and gave Sherlock a brief peck on the tip of the nose instead.

Turning away, the doctor could feel a warm blush creep onto his face. Unsatisfied, Sherlock stared at the back of the flustered doctor, utterly confused. "What did that mean?" he asked.

"You're the smart one, figure it out!" John called as he fled for the kitchen. He was too embarrassed to properly function. First he wakes up with Sherlock Holmes in his arms, next minute he's kissing him. It's not like he hadn't thought about it despite the fact that he is heterosexual. It couldn't be any other man, no one else would do. If anyone, it had to be Sherlock, his only rule-breaker. He hadn't entirely realised it until it was too late, when Sherlock was dead, when he couldn't have possibly done anything more, but he loved Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock leaned back and smirked, recalling the redness of John's ears. It was mutual after all, a pleasant development.

"I'm taking a shower!" John announced as he stomped off to the bathroom. That was the only place he wouldn't have to face his friend.

"What about your food?" Sherlock asked, eyeballing both cold plates.

Before he slammed the door behind him, John cried, "Forget about it!"

Snickering, Sherlock jokingly inquired, "Can I join?" Ruffling John's feathers was fun.

"NO!" John shouted, turning the water on. He needed to calm down. Too much for an old man in the morning.

Laughing, Sherlock snorted and was startled by the noise. This was going to be fun.

**THE END**

**A/n: ****Anyhow, that's it! Be sure to check out the other fics, and subscribe and favorite and things.** Especially review! Please drop me a few-second note for the months of my life I poured into this. I'd appreciate it lots! 'Till next time! 


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